


Brief Encounter

by maraudersaffair



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Bisexual Harry Potter, Coffee Shops, F/M, Fatherhood, First Time, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Healer Draco Malfoy, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-16 03:31:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11245428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maraudersaffair/pseuds/maraudersaffair
Summary: Harry washappy, goddammit; he’d gotten everything he wanted in life. Why then could he not stop thinking about Draco Malfoy?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is roughly based on the 1945 film of the same name. I highly recommend it – there are several links available on YouTube. Initially I set out to write a Drarry fic that hit every plot point in the film, but I soon realized that I wanted to tell a different story. If you’ve seen the film, you might recognize some dialogue, but this only occurs in the first part. 
> 
> It took me a year to complete this fic; I will publish it in parts to allow for remaining edits. This is my first Harry Potter fic since 2010 (?!?!), and it was only after I marathoned all the wonderful Drarry fics I’d missed that I realized I was dying to write my own. Thank you to Lena for your beta-read and pushing me to just “get it done.”
> 
> Thank you for reading!

The train station bustled with commuters and tourists, and the ones in the know popped into its little café for caffeine and biscuits before their departure. The café was ordinary enough on the outside, with its pink awning and rain-streaked shingles. A neon teacup flashed in its misty window, catching the eye like a match igniting in the dark, the words _Crossings Café_ chipping from the glass. 

Rain came down in a rush, darkening the shoulders of hurried businessmen, a group of American university kids holding the morning’s paper over their heads while they stared glumly at the station map. Some travelers appeared immune to the wet for not a single drop found their heads; they strode to their platforms in peculiar cloaks or in clothes considered fashionable thirty, forty years ago: Two elderly friends traded gossip near the stairwell, both clad in bell bottoms and Andean ponchos. 

What made the café unordinary happened on the inside: teacups flew across the room, a broom and dustpan swept around tables and feet quite independently, a customer wrapped entirely in reflective tape cupped a ball of blue fire in his hand to warm up his forgotten coffee. 

A man as tall as a house and as wide as a car entered the café, its door expanding like a rubber band to admit him. The man fluffed up his furry coat and shook out his wild hair like a dog, splattering the couple behind him with water, which earned him twin glares.

His warm beetle-like gaze searched the counter, a frown briefly creasing his face. A woman with toppling grey hair resurfaced from the display case, holding two enormous buns dripping with cinnamon glaze. 

“Fourteen sickles for the lot, dear,” the woman said. She wrapped up the buns in paper and handed them over to her customer. She pursed her lips when she caught sight of the man, and called out his name as if to make sure it really was him: “Hagrid.”

Hagrid approached the counter. “Dolly,” he said, his face strained. 

“Quite the stranger, aren’t you?” Dolly said. 

“I couldn’t get in recently. Had a bit of a dust up,” he said. 

Dolly gave him her shoulder as she furiously scrubbed down the spotless counter with a rag. “What about?”

“Oh, nuthin’ serious—I tried to get me some new creatures fer the school year but it turns out the Ministry’s crackin’ down on that sorta thin’.” He smiled ruefully. 

She snorted and turned away to ring up another customer on a Victorian till, its metal keys calculating change without any help from her. She took up her rag again when she returned. “I’m afraid I can’t really stand here wasting my time in idle gossip.”

Hagrid leaned over the counter, his head in danger of smacking right into the gas lamp there. “Aren’t yer goin’ to offer me a cuppa?” 

“I suppose,” she said, pursing her lips again, which made the wrinkles around her mouth quite severe.

Hagrid observed the room while she busied herself with making his tea. He was just about to turn back to Dolly when a familiar blond head caught his eye. He only knew one person still alive with that color hair, almost white it was so blond. But that person had no business being in the middle of Muggle London. 

Shuffling around the counter, he craned his neck to get a better view of the man, who was not alone. With a start, Hagrid found he recognized his companion as well: windswept messy hair, large circular glasses, and bright green eyes. The two men sat closely, their heads bowed together. The blond reached out to touch the other man—or to nick his wand. 

Hagrid approached their table. “All righ’ there, ‘arry?”

The two men snapped upright in their chairs. 

“Hagrid!” Harry stood to shake his hand and attempted a grin. “It’s been too long!” He motioned to the blond. “I was just catching up with Malfoy.”

Malfoy gave him a thin smile. “It’s a pleasure.”

Hagrid stared suspiciously at the two. “Is everythin’ all righ’?” He tried to catch Harry’s eye but Harry glanced down at Malfoy.

“Of course—” Harry faltered. “Why don’t you join us for a cup?”

Malfoy looked positively green at the prospect. He stood. “I’ll fetch it.” Harry reached for his shoulder but Malfoy waved him off. “No, please.”

Hagrid motioned down to the third chair. “Would yeh mind?” 

“Not at all.” Harry retrieved his wand from its holster and transfigured the chair into a spacious bench. 

Hagrid settled down with a grunt. “Are yeh sure nuthin’s wrong? The children?”

Harry sat down as well. “No, no—everyone’s fine.” He smiled again, but his eyes were quite sad. 

Leaning closer, Hagrid whispered harshly, “Nuthin’s the matter with Malfoy? He’s not botherin’ yeh?”

“No—quite the opposite actually.” When Hagrid gave him a strange look, he rushed on: “What about you? I know James’ thrilled to start Hogwarts and visit you in your hut.”

Hagrid grinned proudly. “Like yer used to.”

Malfoy returned then, a teacup hovering at his shoulder. He waved it off to Hagrid. “I hope it’s hot enough—the woman at the counter swore that’s how much milk you took.”

“Thanks,” Hagrid said gruffly, then turned back to Harry. “How’s the family? I’m sure Ginny’s sad abou’ seein’ James off next fall.”

Harry snorted. “Ginny’s fine with it; I’m the one that’s the mess.” 

Malfoy white-knuckled the table and didn’t pay them any attention, though he angled his body toward Harry. 

“It’ll be fine.” Hagrid patted him on the back, which jolted Harry forward. “There’s still Al and Lily waitin’ for yer at home.”

“Very true—” A crisp female voice announced the arrival of a train. Harry stared at Malfoy. “That’s your train.”

“I must go.” Malfoy’s expression was blank.

“Yes, you must,” Harry said. 

Malfoy stood to smooth out his front. He clutched Harry’s arm for a moment. “Goodbye, then.”

Harry seemed unable to look up at him. “Yes, goodbye.”

Malfoy left the café, his long coat whirling behind him; Harry turned in time to spot his shadow cross the cloudy window. 

“Blimey, ‘arry, you’ve lost all yer color.” Hagrid took out a flask from his coat and poured some whiskey into his untouched tea. He pushed the cup to Harry. “Drink up. Make yer feel better.”

“Yes.” Harry gulped the tea; his hand shook as he set the cup back down. 

Hagrid patted his hand as gently as possible. “Yer know you can tell me anythin’. Anythin’ at all.”

“I know,” Harry said, and busied himself with sipping the tea. “I think I’ve caught something. Haven’t been feeling well for a while.”

“Then we should get yer home,” Hagrid said kindly. 

“Yes,” Harry said, and finished the tea with a last gulp. He stood. “Thank you, but Ginny will be expecting me soon.”

Hagrid stood as well, his knees colliding with the table. He winked at Harry. “A wife always knows how to fix up her husband.” Harry cringed, but Hagrid didn’t know what to make of it.

“Right you are,” Harry said, attempting to calm his face. “Please—order another cup. Don’t end your tea early on my behalf.”

Hagrid frowned. “I’ll walk yer out.” Once outside the café Hagrid took Harry by the shoulders. “That Malfoy—yer sure there’s nuthin’ to tell? Whatever it is, I could help.” Harry began to tremble.

“No—no,” Harry said, and removed himself from Hagrid’s grasp. He tried to laugh but the sound got lost. “We were just catching up.”

“Well,” Hagrid said, still hesitating, “yer know where to find me. Give Ginny and the kids me best.”

“Yes—of course,” Harry said, focusing on the ground. He didn’t look up until he was sure that Hagrid had gone back into the café. He wished he could trust the man, but he knew Hagrid would never understand. Hagrid would judge him—he would say out loud everything bad Harry had been thinking about himself for the past couple of months, and it was always unbearable when friends confirmed his worst thoughts.

The rain soaked his clothes, his hair plastered to his face. He could easily cast a waterproof charm, but he liked how the wet cold shocked him. _Wake up, you fucker_ , he thought darkly. _No reason to just stand here like a loon._

He boarded his train and cast a disillusionment on himself. He rested against the cool window, sighing deeply. A witch in a large lime green raincoat nabbed the seat next to him, her pockets hissing alarmingly when she situated herself. Harry paid her no attention. 

This misery couldn’t last. He needed to remember that and try to control himself. Nothing lasted, not really . . . Not even life lasted very long. There’d come a time in the future when he wouldn’t mind anymore, when he could look back and say quite cheerfully how silly he’d been.

But he didn’t want that time to come. He wanted to savor every memory.

 _Get a hold of yourself_ , he thought, and twisted at the sleeves of his jacket. 

He had to think about something else. Anything else. He ran through his last raid as an Auror before he took his year-long sabbatical. He’d fallen in line right behind Giffords, with Savage leading the front as the point man. They never let Harry be the point man. Where had they been? A shabby flat in Brixton. The corridor had smelled like something fried and rotten. When they broke down the door, Harry darted to his—what was the official term?—Area of Responsibility. He darted to the right corner as Giffords went left. And Savage? Harry scrunched up his face in thought. He couldn’t remember where Savage had gone. He spent the train ride trying to remember. 

Ginny was waiting for him when he arrived home. She smiled at him, her brown eyes full of so much warmth. He couldn’t look at her.

“Thank god you’ve come back,” she said. “The place has been in an uproar.”

His stomach lurched. “What’s the matter?”

“James and Al—what else? They won’t go to sleep until you go in and talk to them about it.”

“Dad? Is that you?” called a small voice from above. “Come upstairs at once!”

Ginny smirked. “You’re being summoned.”

“Then I must go,” Harry said, and tried to laugh. His laugh didn’t sound right to his ears, and he wondered if Ginny noticed at all. 

James greeted him in the doorway of the bedroom he shared with Al. He threw his hands in the air. “I can’t take it anymore!”

Amused, he asked, “What’s this I hear about an uproar?” 

A solemn voice piped up from inside the room: “James started it.”

“Dad, you weren’t here,” James said. “You don’t understand.”

He knew James didn’t mean anything by it, but his words still shook Harry to his core. James was right—Harry hadn’t been there. He’d been with someone he shouldn’t have. 

“Why don’t you just _leave_ already?” Al said to James. Harry entered the room to find Al in bed, a large blanket wrapped around his tiny shoulders. 

James pointed at Al dramatically. “This! This is what I have to deal with!” Harry felt a genuine smile on his face. His children always managed to lift his spirits, especially when his oldest complained like a middle-aged neurotic.

“Dad, don’t listen to him,” Al said. “He’s gone mental.”

“I demand my own room!” James said. 

Harry tried to hide his smile. “Well, there’s space in the garden shed . . .” 

“What’s it to you?” Al sneered at James. “You’re off to Hogwarts in a bit.”

James was aghast. “I can’t live _outside_!”

Harry guided James back to bed. “How do you expect to get along with your dormitory mates if you can’t handle living with your brother?”

“You underestimate Al,” he answered darkly. He allowed Harry to tuck him in. 

“I didn’t do anything!” Al flung onto his back and pulled the blanket over his head. Harry knew he needed to go to him before his bad mood escalated.

Harry kneeled beside the other bed. “Al,” he said gently, pulling the blanket from his face. He pressed his son’s hand to his cheek, knowing it was a weird thing to do but not really caring in the moment. He was desperate for his children to be happy. What was the point in all his sacrifices if his children hurt?

Tears streaked Al’s face. “I won’t apologize.”

“You don’t have to right now,” Harry said. James snorted indignantly behind him, but Harry held up his hand at him as if to say _not the time_. He smoothed back the fringe on Al’s forehead. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it in the morning. I want you to sleep now.”

Al looked uncertainly at him; it still gave Harry a shock to see his own eyes staring back at him. He seemed to consider his options for a moment, but then he closed his eyes and nestled into his pillow. 

Harry’s knees cracked when he stood from the floor. Was he really that old? He perched on James’ bed and pulled the covers up to his shoulders. “I meant what I said to Al,” he whispered. “I want you both asleep.”

“Don’t you even want to know what he did?” James asked.

“No, not right now. We’ll settle it in the morning.” Harry ruffled his son’s hair and left the room, keeping the door cracked. 

Ginny was curled up in front of the fire when he came downstairs. “Well?” she asked. She put aside her crossword to hug him, but he returned it only by habit. He didn’t deserve to feel her soft body against him. 

Sighing deeply, he took up the chair across from her. “Nothing dramatic to report. I didn’t even learn what happened.” 

She clicked her tongue at him. “And you accuse me of spoiling them.” 

“You do spoil them,” Harry said, pulling off his boots and spelling them to the cupboard. “Their characters would be ruined in a fortnight if I left them up to you.”

“Then it’s solved: Tomorrow we’ll thrash them both soundly and lock them up in the attic. We’ll go to the pictures just with Lily and have a grand ol’ time.” She grinned at him, expecting him to laugh.

“Oh, Gin,” he said, rubbing hard at his face. He curled into himself. 

She crouched beside him. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?” 

“I’m okay,” he said, steadying his voice. “Really I am. The weather did me in.”

She pushed back his fringe and caressed his forehead, his cheeks. She bit playfully at his chin; he took a deep breath.

“Let me fix you a drink,” she murmured. 

He shuddered. “All right.” She brought him a whisky a few moments later, but he struggled swallowing his sips. The burn lingered down his throat. 

He watched Ginny work on her crossword, her forehead creased in thought, and refused to think about everything that threatened to choke him.

Ginny looked up at him suddenly. “You’ve barely touched your drink.”

He blinked at her. “Right you are.” He sipped it gingerly. Worry played in her eyes, and he attempted a smile to calm her. 

“Let’s go to bed,” she said.

He spelled his drink to the sink and followed her upstairs. She checked in on the boys and he checked in on Lily, who was fast asleep in bed, curled around her stuffed cub like a protective lioness. A nightlight of the solar system rotated above her head, her painfully innocent face awash in the colors of the planets. 

Ginny had slipped into her nightgown in the bathroom and her breasts moved beneath oh so thin cotton. Harry looked away, knowing he would ruin her—ruin them—if he touched her now.

He changed his clothes and slipped into bed beside her. She rolled onto her side and kissed his neck; he smelled her minty toothpaste and squeezed his eyes closed. He wanted to say, “Please, don’t touch me. I don’t deserve it,” but he patted her hand instead and buried his head in his pillow. He was a coward.

She turned off the lights with a touch to her wand. She pressed her lips to his hair. “Whatever it is,” she said to the back of his head, “you will feel better in the morning.”

He said nothing. 

In the dark Harry allowed himself to think of Malfoy. His features had once seemed so sharp, so cruel, but now Harry knew how they could soften, how utterly boyish they became when flushed. His eyebrows were arched, his eyes cool and indifferent, his lips thin enough to disappear completely when angry or distraught. He’d been distraught back at the café, and Harry tried to remember his mouth in those horrible moments before their goodbye. He’d chewed at his bottom lip, almost as if to hurt himself. A glint of teeth.

In all likelihood, it would be years before he saw that face again. Even then, those features would never again soften for him. Harry imagined running into Malfoy in public years from now, when they were both grey, and knew Malfoy would look at him with mild disdain. Maybe a sneer would ghost his face as he spit out, “Potter,” as if his name had no business being on his tongue.

He pressed his mouth closed, afraid he would make sound. He moved away from Ginny. She could not see him cry. His bedside table held a stack of dusty magazines and a biography of a nineteenth century Quidditch player he’d picked up in Diagon Alley. He couldn’t imagine reading it now. Reading was for people who liked themselves. 

Despite everything in his past, Harry had always considered himself ordinary, and he never thought something so violent could happen to ordinary people.

*

He’d taken the sabbatical to be with his kids. He’d woken up one day, blurry-eyed and stiff, and realized it was September 1st. In a year James would be off to Hogwarts. He stared at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. There were lines on his forehead. He poked at his cheeks. They drooped more than he remembered. He turned to the side and ran a hand down his chest and stomach. He had a paunch.

“Just a little one,” the mirror confirmed.

He scowled and took up a nearby shirt.

“Oh, don’t do that!” the mirror cried. “Think of your frown lines!”

At breakfast he patted his kids on the head and grinned at them stupidly. James brandished his fork like a wand and called out a ridiculously made up spell. Harry choked on his toast and spent a good minute laughing into his coffee. 

James beamed at him. “Soon I’ll know the real stuff!”

“True,” he said, and his smile froze on his face. He felt like he was plummeting through the air. Dazed, he stared at his children. They all looked so much older than he remembered. Lily sipped daintily from her milk, some princess character waving at him from the side of her cup. She used to fit in the curve of his arm as he fed her a bottle.

“Honey?” Ginny frowned at him from across the table. “Are you all right?”

He blinked at her. “I don’t want to go to work.”

She snorted. “That makes two of us.” Collecting the empty dishes, she gave him a peck on the lips. 

He remained at the table even as his kids ran to get ready for the Burrow. They spent the day with Molly while he and Ginny were at work.

He struggled to breathe. He pulled at his Auror robes; they felt like a strait jacket. He imagined riding the Ministry lift to his office. The stench of coffee breath from the other occupants. Falling farther and farther underground. 

What was there to be done? A pile of forms on his desk. Not a raid in sight. Apparently criminals were taking a holiday. More likely the Ministry refused to endanger their poster boy. Their cash cow.

What was the point of wasting away at a desk while his kids grew up under the watch of someone else? There was only a year left before James disappeared for good.

He’s not _dying_ , Harry told himself. No, he would just be at Hogwarts for nine months out of the year. Harry scowled. Had it really been sixteen years since he himself left school? God, where had his twenties gone?

He went into the bedroom in search for Ginny. She was pulling a jumper over her head and there were red creases on her stomach from sitting at the table. He traced them with a finger. She batted his hand away and laughed.

“You’re going to be late for work.”

He grasped her hand. “I need you.”

“Oh,” she said, and sat down on the bed. “There is something wrong.”

He felt remarkably vulnerable underneath her gaze. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need to be with the kids.”

She rubbed his back. “Tell me how I can help.”

He didn’t go to work that day. Instead he sat around the telly with his kids and began the paperwork for a sabbatical.

*

He didn’t know what he expected. Balloons? Confetti? At the very least he expected his kids to be a little excited about their dad spending a year at home with them.

“But what about Gran?” Lily cried. 

James huffed. “Their garden is better for practicing Quidditch.” 

Unsurprisingly, Al clutched at his arm. “Don’t worry, Dad. I care about you.” He was bound to stick his tongue out at James once Harry looked away.

“What if you split the week between here and Gran’s?” he asked.

Wiping at her eyes, Lily said, “Will you make peanut butter and banana sandwiches?”

“Of course.”

“Will you teach me some Seeker skills?” James asked.

“Maybe.” Harry still didn’t like the idea of his son zipping around on a broom. He was only ten, for Christ’s sake.

His children stared at each other in a silent conference. He tried really hard not to be offended. 

“Okay, but we get to watch telly during the day,” James said.

“And you have to take us to Fortescue’s at least once a week,” Lily said.

Al patted his arm gently. “I’m just glad you’ll be around more. Unlike some people.”

“Prat,” James coughed.

“Okay, we have a deal,” Harry said, too miffed that he had to bribe his own kids to spend time with him to scold James. “Gran’s must be a really special place.”

James grinned. “She’s a really good cook.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry said.

*

With his kids at the Burrow for half the week, Harry found himself with a lot of time on his hands. He spent the morning of his first free day in bed, staring up at the canopy morosely. This was not how he imagined his sabbatical. He wanted to feel like he was creating lifelong memories with his children before it was too late. Instead he felt like a huge idiot for taking such a lengthy time off from work.

When he’d popped in at the Ministry to deliver his sabbatical forms, Shacklebolt had taken him aside to ask, “Are you sure you want to do this? We need you here.”

Harry had nodded earnestly. “I need this time for my family.”

But now he thought about all the ways he’d mucked it up. He’d probably be forty by the time they let him on a raid now, especially after being out of the game for an entire year. Office politics changed within the hour, let alone twelve months. He’d come back to an entirely different social environment, and he knew it’d take him a while to regain the same amount of influence, even if he _was_ Harry Potter.

 _Stop being an egotistical prat_ , he thought. He pulled himself out of bed and eyed the overflowing laundry basket. There were chores to be done. He brightened. He would be one of those progressive dads and do the dusting and cooking while Gin was at work. 

Snatching up the basket, he headed for the laundry room. But first he had to learn how to work the washing machine. 

At first Kreacher had done all the washing, and when he passed on, Gin took over the chore. And it’d been easier for Harry to just let her do it, hadn’t it? But he now felt like an utter fool as he tapped his wand against the machine and it growled and spit bubbles at him. 

After a while, he gave up and Floo’ed the one person he trusted to have answers: Hermione. She came over during her lunch break and laughed herself silly when she found him covered in suds and battling an enraged washer. 

“Tell me again how you’re thirty-four and don’t know how to clean your own clothes?” she said.

“Just not magically,” he said. “I know how to do the washing as a Muggle.”

“Men,” she snorted, and took out her wand to coax the machine back into submission. 

He made them some sandwiches just to prove that he wasn’t worthless at everything. 

“So, how’s your holiday?” she asked with a mouthful of sandwich. Ron had rubbed off on her.

Sighing, he said, “Not so good. Looks like my kids don’t like me.”

She waved off his conclusion. “Your kids adore you. They just have a routine and are not used to their dad hanging about.”

He picked at his crust. “Do you ever feel like life is flashing before your eyes and you have no idea how to pause it?”

“Every single day.” She cocked her head. “Aren’t you a little young for a midlife crisis?”

“I’m not in a crisis . . . I just want something different, that’s all.”

She bit her lip. “Is everything okay with you and Ginny?”

He rolled his eyes. “My marriage is fine. I just . . . I guess I don’t really know.”

“You should take up a hobby. Make it a point to go flying more often. Join a chess club. Read some mystery novels.”

“Chess club? Really?”

“What? Ron would love to join a club like that!”

“I’m sure,” he said, and sighed. “Look, don’t worry about me. I’ll get over whatever mood this is.”

She touched his hand. “Sometimes life disappoints.”

*

The next day he diligently took his kids to Diagon Alley for some ice cream. Truth be told, he didn’t like doing his shopping in the wizarding world. He’d rather owl-order anything magical he needed and stick to Muggle shops for the rest of it.

He was in the middle of deep throating a cone of pumpkin fudge when he was reminded of exactly why he hated shopping around other magical people: there was a click of a camera and the four of them flinched at the blinding flash.

“Why do they always have to do that?” Al said.

James smeared some of his ice cream onto Al’s face. “Smile for the cameras!” Al lunged at him.

Harry grabbed Al by the back of his jacket. “Cut it out—both of you.”

“Daddy,” Lily said, pulling at his robes, “can we go to the toy shop?”

“Sure, lemme finish my cone first,” he said.

His kids shared a look.

“Do you think we could go alone?” James asked, not meeting his eyes.

Harry squinted at them. “What are you three up to?”

“Nothing,” James said quickly, “it’s just that—”

“People leave us alone when you’re not around,” Al said. 

Harry blinked back tears. He refused to show how much this hurt him. “I don’t know . . . there’s crazy people in the world.” 

“Oh, please, Daddy!” Lily yanked some more on his robes, desperate hope on her face.

James stood abruptly. “Don’t worry—I’ll look after them.”

“I can take care of myself!” Al insisted.

“You’re ten,” Harry said.

James scoffed. “I’ve babysat them loads of times.”

Al threw his hands up. “I’m not a baby!” 

Harry didn’t know what to do. On one hand, he didn’t want to be one of those nutter helicopter parents. On the other hand, paedophiles.

“Okay . . . but I will be in the bookshop right next door. And no leaving without me!”

The table erupted in cheers.

It was a chilly late morning, and the sun was taking its sweet time to come out. Once the ice cream had been gobbled up, Harry spent some time making sure his kids were properly warm. James and Al rolled their eyes as he buttoned up their jackets and Lily giggled as he tightened her scarf for a second time. 

“You’re not sending us into the Arctic,” James said.

Harry shook his head. When had his kids learned sarcasm? “I bet you couldn’t even point the Arctic out on a map.”

“Try me,” James said, and Harry shot him a warning look.

They left Fortescue’s and weaved around small pockets of shoppers on the cobbled street. Harry did his best to ignore the pointing and the whispers. He forced himself to stop in front of the bookshop.

“Right,” he said, shoving his hands into his robes. 

“Don’t worry, Dad,” James said. “I can handle it.”

“Yeah, and you’ll just be next door where you’ll _definitely_ hear our cries for help,” Al said.

Why were his kids so weird? “Do you have your pocket money?” Three miniature faces nodded at him. “Off you go then.”

His kids marched confidently into the toy shop. He tried to push down all the horrible cases of kidnapping he’d encountered on the job. His kids were _not_ in danger. They would just be in the shop over, exploring the world on their own, slowly developing into independent and capable people. This was what all parents wanted for their children. Harry wanted to chuck himself off a bridge. 

Sighing, he entered the bookshop, but one glance at the startled cashier made him want to turn right back around. He headed for the back and ran into a large display of _another_ unauthorized biography of himself. At least fifty copies pirouetted in the air, his doughy teenaged face grinning at him. He’d been so damn young. The older he became, the more he understood the fascination. How in the world had someone so innocent vanquished the epitome of evil? He really didn’t know anymore.

He moved away from the display to examine the other biographies. The section on Quidditch players caught his attention. To be honest, he’d always been just a little jealous of Ginny going pro. That is, until she got injured at twenty-three and couldn’t play anymore. It’d been for the best—a few months after retiring, she’d found out she was pregnant with James. All things happened for a reason, he guessed.

He ran his fingers down the spines of the books. One leather bound caught his attention; it was an old copy of the biography of Bernhard Munsterberg, a German-born seeker who played for the Falmouth Falcons at the end of the nineteenth century. There was a picture of Munsterberg on the first page, and he looked even surlier than Krum: He glowered up at Harry, showing off more than a few missing teeth. Harry guessed Munsterberg had taken his fair share of Bludgers to the face. 

“Can I help you with anything?” the cashier asked.

Harry yelped and nearly dropped the book. “No—thanks. I’ll just be getting this.”

“Great! I can help you with your purchase up front.”

“Err—” Harry remembered that he also needed to get Hermione a birthday present. He gauged whether the cashier would leave him alone long enough for him to do that. “I actually still want to do a bit of looking about.”

The cashier blushed. “Of course. So sorry, Mr Potter.”

He darted down the aisle and collided with an enormous poster of his teenage self in mid-duel. Golden words flashed at the bottom: _Stay Strong_. The picture was from that time the press had sat in on one of Harry’s Auror trainings. He knew the Prophet had published the photos, but he didn’t know they had also been made into posters. He wondered what other things had his image that he didn’t know about, and then he stopped himself from going down that road.

Luckily, he quickly found the perfect book for Hermione: _Bad Witches: The Untold Story of Twelve Women Who Defied the Patriarchy_. The cover was charmed to alternate between old-timey photographs of witches giving readers the two-fingered salute. Snorting, he imagined her opening his gift after a few glasses of wine and cackling madly.

He steeled himself for another awkward encounter before venturing up to the front. The cashier waited for him behind the till. 

“I’ve never been here before,” he said in an attempt at small talk.

“Oh, we opened a few months back,” the cashier said, staring avidly at Harry’s purchases as if to catalogue every detail. Harry coughed, and the cashier hastily shoved the two books into a paper bag. 

“For friends,” he said stiffly, grabbing the bag before the cashier could be weird again. 

“Of course,” the cashier said, then paused before adding shyly, “do you think I could have your autograph?”

“Oh, uh.” Harry’s instinct had always been to turn down an autograph request. It was just plain awkward, and how was he supposed to live a normal life if he was constantly signing things for strangers?

“It’s for my mum—she has cancer,” the cashier said.

“Uh—all right.” How could he say no to cancer?

The cashier slid the new unauthorized biography to him. “Anywhere would be fine.”

“Err—you see—I don’t like to support these things. They don’t have my permission and they are usually filled with misinformation.”

“But my mum loves the author. It would mean the world if you’d sign it for her.”

“I understand that, but could I just sign some parchment instead?” 

The cashier blinked at him. “My mum might not live through the year and you refuse to sign a book for her? Nobody else is going to see it.”

“Yes, and I’m very sorry about your mum, but it’s the principle of the matter—”

“Dad!” James charged into the shop, Al and Lily right behind him.

“Come quick! We’ve been murdered!” Al yelled and then _shrieked_ with laughter. Lily let the door slam shut and a display of books toppled to the floor.

Harry tried to spell the books back in order. “I’m very sorry—”

“Your autograph please.” The cashier shoved the biography in his face.

“Right,” he said, completely giving up. His fingers threatened to break the quill as he scratched his name across the first page. There was no reason for him to be this angry; the cashier was just a fan; they were all just fans.

*

He started on the Munsterberg biography when he got home, but his mind kept straying to his encounter with that barmy cashier. He really didn’t know what to think about it. It was just so hard not to hate people. It wasn’t his fault that cancer fancied mums, and he should be able to say no when he didn’t want to do things for strangers. He rested the book on his lap and took off his glasses to massage in between his eyes. Were wizards just completely unable to leave him alone or did he somehow encourage them to be weird with him? Maybe he was just too nice . . . he shouldn’t have been so friendly with that cashier.

Sighing, he tried to focus on his book again, but Al chose that moment to stab Lily in the eye with one of his new toy wands. Lily started screaming.

“I didn’t mean to!” Al said.

“Love, let’s see,” Harry said, pulling Lily to him. She pressed her face into his chest and refused to move her hand away from her eye.

“Now look what you’ve done—you’ve blinded your own sister,” James said, who hovered at Harry’s shoulder.

“It was an accident!” Al thundered. He threw the wand to the ground and raced up the stairs to his bedroom. A door slammed a moment later.

“Not helping,” Harry growled at James. It was taking everything in him not to start hollering at his son. “You go apologize to your brother and reassure him that he didn’t blind Lily.”

Smirking, James said, “But we don’t know that yet.” 

“Go!” Harry said.

James huffed and marched upstairs.

“Lils, please.” He gently pulled Lily’s hand away from her face. The corner of her eye was red and beginning to swell, but it was still firmly attached to her head. “Looks like your eye will be just fine, which is unfortunate, because I really wanted a daughter with an eyepatch.” 

Lily laughed, and her little shoulders shook against him. “It hurts, Daddy.” She nestled closer to him and pressed her face firmly against his neck as if his bare skin had healing powers. Maybe it did.

Something broke inside Harry and he was almost dizzy with the love he felt for his daughter. His kids clinging to him like this was pretty much the best thing in the world.

A little while later Harry was perched on Al’s bed and rubbing his back soothingly. “Everyone knows it was an accident.”

“James doesn’t think so,” Al said, his voice muffled by his bedding. 

Harry raised his eyebrows at James, who lounged on the other bed, doing his best to look disinterested.

“I don’t understand why he gets to be such a bloody drama queen. It was just a joke,” James said.

“Language.” Harry narrowed his eyes at James, knowing quite well that his children cracked under the look.

“Fine! I’m sorry for taking the piss, Al. I didn’t know you were going to be such a crybaby.”

“Shut up!” Al yelled.

Harry wanted to throttle James; Al was now just as riled up as when he first injured Lily. He left Al’s bed to loom over James; he was struggling to remain calm and his voice was a near whisper: “James Sirius, get your arse to the kitchen and wait for me until I’m ready to speak to you. Now.”

James’ expression momentarily crumpled, but he hardened his gaze and stomped out of the room. A snicker came from behind Harry.

Taking a deep breath, Harry turned to Al. “You both need to stop antagonizing each other. Yes, what you did to Lils was an accident, but you need to be more careful in the future. You are lucky that you’re only crying about James’ being mean to you instead of your sister losing an eye.”

“I wasn’t crying.” Al threw a pillow over his face. “Just leave me alone.”

“With pleasure,” Harry growled, and slammed the bedroom door closed behind him. He immediately felt regret but Al was getting older and needed to learn how to let things roll off his back.

He popped into Lily’s room and found her dozing with his mild ice charm on her eye. He’d learned that particular trick from Molly and he hoped that the charm wouldn’t get too cold, but Lily had the common sense to tell him if he was turning her eyeball into an ice cube. At least he hoped she did.

He took the two levels down to the kitchen slowly. Why did parenting mainly involve a never-ending cycle of self-doubt? He shouldn’t have cursed at James. He shouldn’t have slammed the door in front of Al. They were just kids; they should be allowed to act out every once in a while. But—maybe he was too soft on them. They needed to learn that their actions had consequences.

He paused to gather his wits before entering the kitchen. James sulked at the ancient table, barely looking up at Harry. 

“You’re helping me with dinner,” Harry barked, satisfied that his voice made James jump. 

“Okay,” James said coolly. 

Harry summoned the ingredients for chicken soup, and the carrots and celery landed in front of James. “Do you know what to do with those?”

Raising his chin, James said, “Of course. I’ve seen Mum and Gran cut them up loads of times. Without their wands, too.”

“Good. Get to work then.” Harry briefly considered forcing James to dice the onion as well, but he thought that was a bit too cruel. Dicing onions without a shielding charm was an utter bitch.

Even though he knew his way around the kitchen from his time with the Dursleys, the truth was that he’d rarely cooked for the family. Both he and Gin were incredibly busy, but somehow Gin always managed to start dinner before him, and he was never in the position to complain after a long day at work. He was glad that his sabbatical had changed that. If he was honest, it was because cooking for his wife and kids made him feel cool. He was rejecting gender norms like one of those young blokes with their hair in a bun and a tattoo of Rowena Ravenclaw on their arm.

James was eyeing the knives, his little face scrunched up in confusion. Harry watched him while peeling the onion, determined to let James find out on his own which knife was best for such a job. Hesitating, James pulled out an enormous butcher knife, but then put it back with a flinch. He settled on a smaller knife similar to the ones used in potions, and Harry nodded to himself.

There were charms for chopping veg and sautéing butter; there was even a spell to transform water into broth. But he was still a novice when it came to cooking with magic, even though Molly had been trying to teach him since the kids were born. “You’re gonna have to know some of this, especially when Ginny’s spent all day nursing and chasing after toddlers,” she’d said. Harry’d scoffed. “I’m not gonna sit back and make her do everything.” Molly had just shaken her head at him.

Once he was done dicing the onion like a Muggle, he found out that James’ idea of a good chop was to completely massacre the carrots and celery. James’ was breathing hard and seemed overwhelmed with what to do with the mountain of veg that was piling up. Harry ached. Even though James’ hair was a dark brown and nowhere near as messy as Harry’s, in that moment he reminded Harry so much of himself. It was like Harry had time-traveled back to the Dursley’s kitchen and saw himself struggle to remain calm as Petunia demanded he do the work of a grown man.

“Jamie,” he said softly.

“Yeah?” James didn’t glance up.

“That’s enough for now. Go watch some telly or something.”

James shrugged as if he didn’t care either way. “Whatever.”

Harry bit his tongue; he would let that one slide. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to get the Dursleys the fuck out of his head. They were miles away and their memory would harm him only if he let it. 

The soup was simmering on the cooker when Gin came home from work. She hugged him from behind and rested her chin on his shoulder.

“You’re my hero for cooking,” she said, sighing. “I’m starving and a pygmy puff could knock me over.”

“Trouble at work?” he asked.

“Always.” She took a big sniff of the soup. “This smells great. How was your day?”

“Perfect. Wonderful. Al nearly blinded Lily in one eye with a fake wand. She’s up in her room recovering.”

Ginny sighed. “Shackles and whips. That’s what we need. But kid size. We wouldn’t want to traumatize them.” They shared a laugh.

“What are you two laughing about?” Al asked from the doorway.

“Mind your own business,” Ginny said, going over to kiss Al’s forehead. “I’ve heard you’ve been bad.”

Al glowered at Harry. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Let me explain my side of the story to you.” He grabbed Ginny’s hand, and she let him drag her upstairs to talk in private. Harry ignored his jealousy; Al rarely ever sought him out like he did with Ginny.

He drew his wand and aimed it at a random bowl, which shattered into a million bits. He only felt marginally better. He turned in place, eyeing the kitchen, wondering how in the world he had ended up there. He was _happy_ , goddammit; he’d gotten everything he wanted in life. Why then did he feel so unsure? It was like his feet had left the ground, and everyone stood by to watch as he tumbled down, down.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry spent the following weeks traversing the skyline with Bernhard Munsterberg. It surprised him how accessible he found the biography. On the days that the kids were with their gran, he sprawled on the sofa or in bed, and lived the life of a nineteenth century athlete. God, he missed Quidditch. There was a lot about his childhood he didn’t want to return to, but he would give anything to experience his old Quidditch victories again. 

For Hermione’s birthday Molly and Arthur had volunteered to look after the grandkids so she could enjoy a quiet dinner and get royally pissed. Harry had made sure to bring over a couple of bottles of her favorite wine, and Ginny and Ron had conspired to create the most intoxicating cocktail possible. 

When they sat down to dinner Harry was already having a difficult time focusing his eyes. He gulped down a few glasses of water, and was impressed that Ron, despite having bubbles escaping from his ears (a side effect from the cocktail), managed to perfectly roast a lamb. 

He admired Ron’s work in the kitchen. Without even thinking about it, Ron stirred the veg and sliced the bread with a flick of his wand. Plates and silverware soared out of the cupboard and landed on the table in neat little lines. 

Hermione began buttering the bread by hand and Harry was grateful that she wasn’t adding to Ron’s little performance. 

He helped her with the bread. “Are you ever jealous that magic comes so naturally to Ron?”

“I don’t think jealousy is the right word. It intrigues me more than anything.” She motioned to the bread and butter. “It’s just as easy to do this by hand. I wouldn’t want to do it with magic.”

Ron carved up the lamb into fat slices. There was little conversation as the four of them gobbled up the dinner, their heads lolling dangerously close to their plates. Broccoli slipped from Gin’s fork to her cleavage, and it took her a good ten minutes to notice. Ron hiccupped and scared everyone when a few flames shot from his nose.

While Ron and Ginny tried to figure out which liqueur was causing all the bubbles and flames, Hermione asked Harry about the book he was reading.

“I finished it,” he said, smiling. 

Hermione smirked at him. “I don’t think you’ve read a book since Hogwarts.”

“That’s not true!” He pretended to search his memory. “I’ll have you know it’s only been four or five years.”

She snorted. “Are you done then? Met your five year quota?”

“No, actually,” he said. “Brace yourself—I was thinking about popping into a Muggle library to see what I can dig up.”

She clutched at her chest. “I don’t know what to do with that information.”

Laughing, he said, “Biographies. I want to find good biographies.”

“What is your definition of ‘good’?”

He shrugged. “I dunno . . . . What I enjoyed about the Munsterberg book was how he struggled with his fame. I could relate, you know? All the stuff about his involvement with the Muggle Kulturkampf was good, too, but it wasn’t my favorite part.”

Hermione eyed him speculatively. “This all sounds like it’ll be good for you. Do you mind if I come along? It’s been too long since I’ve been to a library outside the Ministry.”

“Do you have a break tomorrow? Molly has the kids and I was planning on doing it then.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

After dinner Hermione and Ginny washed up and Harry and Ron climbed up to their attic to play some chess. Ron had seized the attic for his own space, and he never let any of his kids beyond the TRESSPASS AT YOUR OWN RISK sign. He’d raised the ceiling with a couple of spells, and all in all, it made a comfortable room despite sometimes having a nasty draft.

Harry plopped down in front of the chessboard, but Ron hesitated, his ears turning red.

“So I promised George I’d give you something,” he said.

“Where’s George anyway?” Harry said. 

Ron shrugged. “I dunno—he and Hermione are always fighting, you know that.” He brought out a turquoise box from a cupboard and dropped it at Harry’s feet. “I don’t stand by whatever you find it there. George’s entering a new business adventure with Lee and they’re hoping you’ll give them some constructive feedback on their choice of products.”

Harry didn’t pick up the box. “Nothing’s going to harm me, right?”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t think so?” Harry raised his eyebrows. “Just open it!”

The box contained fragrant tissue paper and porn magazines. No, not just magazines; there were also toys and potions tucked in their own little compartments. The box was lined with pink velvet, and Harry thought they had given him something made for a woman because the first magazine had a naked man on the cover.

Harry held up the magazine with a sarcastic grin. “They know me so well.”

Ron’s blush moved to his cheeks. “Keep digging—I’m sure you’ll find something you like. All the boxes contain a ‘variety of products’ at the moment. They weren’t sure how they should organize the merchandise.”

He rummaged through the pile of magazines and landed on one that caught his fancy. A woman with enormous tits graced its cover, and he lifted her up so Ron could see. “She could definitely get to Uranus with these,” Harry said, pointing to her cleavage.

Ron glanced at the woman. “Yeah she could.” They chuckled uncomfortably, and Harry found that he was quite disinterested in the box.

“Do I have to take it?” he asked.

Ron sat down opposite him. “Yes. George won’t leave it alone if you don’t.”

Harry sighed and shrank the box to fit in his pocket. They settled into the chess match, which was disrupted only a few times by the release of bubbles and flames from Ron’s face.

*

The next morning Harry was drinking his coffee when an owl arrived from Hermione. _Thrash Tufferin commandeered my lunch break today. Sometime next week for the library visit?_ Harry sent off a good-natured reply and tried not to feel like an utter deadbeat. Nobody was commandeering his lunch breaks any time soon.

He went out into the garden. It had rained sometime before sunrise and the clouds threatened to spill more; the air always smelled like a pond after a good storm, and the scent was even headier back here among the tangles of Grimmauld Place’s enchanted plants. After the war, he and Ginny had moved into the old house as a salute to the Order. They’d cleaned up the place like Sirius had intended and prided themselves on giving Teddy the opportunity to traverse the corridors of his ancestors. Everything had turned out great for the most part, but sometimes certain doors still refused to open for Harry no matter how many _Alohomoras_ he threw their way.

In Muggle London the gutters would be foaming with rainwater; the concrete streets glistening with runoff; an endless mass of strangers jostling to get to work. All that traffic would swallow him up, countless Muggles staring right through him.

He choked down his coffee and rushed to get ready. Even without Hermione, he had to _get out_ today. 

On his way out the door, he considered briefly not taking his wand, but that thought quickly disappeared, and he chided himself for his stupidity. Dark wizards didn’t contain themselves to the wizarding world. 

He Apparated to an alley designated for wizard travel and was bombarded by a blur of honking and telly sounds. He always forgot just how _loud_ Muggles could be.

So much had changed since he was a kid living solely in the Muggle world. Everybody now had mobiles on them that could do pretty much anything, or so it seemed to Harry. He dawdled down the street, careful to hug the buildings so that he wasn’t in the way of the business-types charging past him. He walked by one of those famous coffee shops—Star Wars. No, that wasn’t it. He doubled back to catch the name. Starbucks. The queue was damn near out the door, but the smells coming from inside made his morning coffee seem quite inferior. A group of uni kids stumbled out of the shop and the queue shortened a little. _Why not?_ he thought. 

Inside were Muggles on computers and large rectangular devices that he assumed were either tiny computers or very large mobiles. He was quite entranced with what was happening on their screens. A woman was blasting fruit apart; a teenage boy was snickering at a film (why wasn’t he in school?); even an old gran had her nose pressed to a screen, her veiny finger flicking through various photographs of poodle mixes.

The customer behind him tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to a free till. “Come on now—some of us don’t have all day.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, and approached the cashier to order. He had no idea what to get. “Err—what’s good here?”

The cashier winced but quickly recovered with a bright smile. “Our caramel macchiato is quite popular. There’s also our lattes. Oh, and our espresso macchiato is great if you need a wake me up. I personally like the white chocolate mocha. Oh, and there’s also matcha. Can’t go wrong with matcha.”

“What’s matcha?”

The cashier frowned at him. “Green tea. We can sweeten it for you. You can get it either iced or hot or blended. It comes with whipped cream.”

“Whipped cream? That sounds like a dessert.”

“Yes, but—”

“Hey, mate.” It was the customer behind him again. “I recommend a plain old vanilla latte. I’ll even buy it for you if it means I can order now.”

Harry turned to the other man. “That’s very kind of you.” The man stared at him with slight hostility, his gaze sweeping over Harry in a vague sort of way. A thrill ran through Harry—the man didn’t care one bit about him.

“Two grande vanilla lattes. Hold the whip on mine.” The man turned to Harry expectantly.

“Err—no whipped cream for me either.”

Once their orders were up, the man handed Harry his warm drink. “Cheers,” he said, and left the shop.

Harry took a sip. Burnt and sweet. Very sweet. He licked his lips and wondered if he liked the taste. 

He was sad to see the man go; he turned in place, expecting to catch the eye of someone. People were always staring at him—except now they weren’t. The queueing customers were determined not to acknowledge his presence. That was just fine. He took up a table to people watch. He’d forgotten what it could be like to watch strangers without anyone looking back.

The latte warmed his fingers. He took off the top and let the steam moisten his cheeks. It smelled damn good. He’d brought along the Munsterberg biography to reread, but it was shrunk down in his pocket and there were too many moving pictures to flip through around Muggles, and the thought of using magic to hide anything tainted this experience somehow. Today he wanted to be as divorced from magic as possible.

It wasn’t like the Muggle world was new to him. But with his growing list of work and family obligations, he rarely had the time to visit anywhere other than Grimmauld Place, the Ministry, and the grimy interior of his Floo. And when he did pop into Muggle shops—which was seldom since Gin pretty much did all the shopping for the family—he never had the time nor the desire to linger among the other customers. There was always the possibility—the itch on the back of his neck—that he would run into the Dursleys or one of their neighbors or one of Dudley’s old friends. He’d learned this the hard way. 

Right after the war, he’d roamed random Muggle towns, enjoying the quiet chatter along quaint streets, walking until his feet were numb and an absence grew in his head. One day, he’d peered into a shop window at a family of mannequins. They were on holiday. Sand licked at their plastic toes. He yearned to be seaside with them; to have a kip beneath the hazy sun, the sound of crashing waves in his ear, and to wake up knowing he was safe. Distracted by the mannequins, he did not see the woman emerge from the shop until it was too late. She spoke to him; he turned to her. He would never know if it really was Petunia; the sun was low on the horizon in the late afternoon, and the woman was a blurry yellow outline, but there was something very familiar in the way her boney fingers held her purse. He’d fled.

But now—he felt differently. He almost wanted to run into the Dursleys. No, that wasn’t right. He wanted to run into Petunia. He wanted Petunia to know that he was a happy family man now; he wanted her to see just how _happy_ he made his wife and kids. He wanted her to see this and be jealous. To envy him. To regret _everything_. 

When he finished his drink he left the coffee shop and headed to the British Library by crossing Euston. He entered the library through the first doors he reached and thought he’d made a mistake: the place was _enormous_. How in the world was he going to find what he needed? White columns loomed above him; tourists wandered by with their shopping bags; countless uni kids tinkered on their computers, white or black strings attracted to their ears. The atmosphere was inviting; somebody far off suffered a coughing fit, and Harry had the strange urge to follow the sound. Maybe he would fail at finding interesting biographies, but he looked forward to disappearing into the multiple levels of book stacks.

The sugary coffee had made him jittery and a bit paranoid; he creeped down the aisles, afraid his trainers were making too much noise. At one point there was rustling behind him, and he spun around, convinced that he was being followed. All these quiet Muggles probably knew he was an outsider.

After a couple of go-arounds on the first two levels, he finally gave up and stopped a uni kid who looked like she knew her way around. Her bushy hair was streaked with green and there were piercings on her nose and lip. He thought she looked a bit like Hermione, that is, if Hermione had ever gone through a rebel phase.

“Do you know where I can find the biographies?” he asked, unable to meet her eyes.

She frowned. “Which ones?” 

“Good question.” He laughed, and tried to ignore how his chest felt hollow and constricted. “How about biographies in the nineteenth century?”

Her frown deepened. “You mean, like written in the nineteenth century or about people who lived in the nineteenth century?”

“The last one.”

“Okay, answer this: Which one interests you more: Sojourner Truth or Queen Victoria?”

“Err—Victoria?”

“Follow me,” she said, and to his surprise, led him up two levels and down several aisles before stopping.

“Wow, I sure picked the right girl to ask,” he said. She lifted an eyebrow, and he looked away, hoping his demeanor said _I’m not a sod, I promise!_

“I recommend Gladstone. I found his thoughts on Home Rule surprisingly nuanced.” She left, obviously pleased with herself for knowing more than some random older bloke.

He walked down the aisle until he found a few books on the historical figure. He crouched on the floor to lay them out, and he was startled when W. E. Gladstone, an old white man with great big muttonchops, didn’t move in any of his pictures. The reading seemed a bit dull, but his head was swimming, and he wanted to figure out what it was about this fossil that could fascinate somebody with green hair and facial piercings.

Glancing around, he made quick work of replicating the book he wanted and shrinking it so he could place it on his person. He returned the other books to their places and stumbled to the end of the aisle, relieved to find open chairs. He dropped into one and cradled his head. What the hell did Muggles put in their coffee? He was developing a god-awful headache; there was too much buzzing in his ears.

After he spent long minutes rubbing his temples the pain abruptly subsided; he paused, breathing deeply. What just happened? He felt a trace of magic in the air, but it was faint, and he couldn’t tell if it was his own or if there was another wizard nearby. He glanced around, expecting to discover someone staring back at him, but he was all alone. Maybe his own magic had cured him, but that happened only rarely. 

He stood. He didn’t feel comfortable enough to continue sitting in the library. His headache had disappeared, but he was tired. His shoulders felt like they were carrying a loaded satchel. He kept his head down as he left, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but also not wanting to spot anything that would make the Auror in him take notice. 

At home he prepared a snack for his kids. He was cutting up some veg when it occurred to him that he felt entirely better. No more headaches. No more tiredness. He probably felt poorly in the library because all that Muggle technology was messing with his magic. There was no proof that tech hurt wizards, but there sure were loads of magazine articles that took the possibility quite seriously: _Ten Ways to Protect Yourself from Ele-trick-ale Signals!_ ; _The TRUTH about Nuke-clear Radiation_ ; _Saddle-Lights, Muggle Space Rubbish, and What Every Astronomer Should Know_.

He knew not to believe most things he read in print, but he couldn’t deny that it was a strange coincidence. He would have to return to the library to see if the symptoms happened again.

When his kids arrived home via the Floo, they ate a plate of carrots and crisps and dug up the board game _Hag in the Hole_. They begged him to join in, and he agreed to play one game. Lily perched on his lap and insisted on rolling his dice and moving his pawn. When Al lost, his head transformed into a hag, and everyone laughed and laughed. He pretended to pick a bogey from his gnarled green nose, his little black eyes focused on Harry. They grinned at each other.

*

And so it went. Apparating to Muggle London became routine for him, and he found himself itching to get back to that Star Wars when he was at home cooking dinner or lounging in front of the telly. For now he stayed away from the British Library and spent most of his book-related time in shops that catered to Muggles who were posh and literature-minded.

He still desperately missed his children when they were with Molly, and he would give up his excursions if it meant spending more time with them. But as it was, they were perfectly fine spending half their week at the Burrow and he was perfectly fine watching them disappear amid a roar of flames. He awoke with such expectancy on his free days, and decided one morning as he cleaned up the remains of breakfast that he’d skip the bookshops to go for a walk around the city. He didn’t pick a very good day for it: gusts of wind swelled against the house, fallen leaves skipping down the front steps, the window sills acting like fly traps for debris.

Before leaving, he spent a bit of time searching for a jumper with a hood or a hat that didn’t make him look ridiculous. When his search came up short, he thought _fuck it_ and grabbed his usual jacket. He decided to bring along the Gladstone biography in case he had to seek refuge indoors. 

He Apparated to his usual spot but stalked off toward the Grimaldi Park instead of the coffee shop. He was counting on his glasses shielding some of the weather, but his eyes stung from the cold wind and his lashes kept catching bits of his rebelling fringe. He was having a hell of a time seeing; another icy blast hit his face and he stumbled on something. His glasses were knocked to the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks. There was something in his eye, a pinch of dirt or broken leaf, he didn’t know. He reached out blindly—maybe he could feel his way to somewhere private where he could use magic. He needed to get his glasses back. 

“Let me help,” someone said. Harry felt warm hands on his shoulders. “Move to your right with me. There’s an entryway that will block the wind.”

“There’s something in my eye,” Harry said, allowing the stranger to navigate him away from the street. 

“I can tell,” the person answered, and Harry felt something soft under his eye. He jerked away.

“What’s that?”

“It’s just my handkerchief. I’m a healer. May I wipe at your eye?” the person murmured. 

Harry nodded, then felt the gentlest of pressure along his eyelid. The stranger cupped his face. He knew the voice was probably too low to be a woman’s, but he couldn’t believe a man would touch him so tenderly.

“Got it.” The person carefully wiped his cheeks too. “Let me retrieve your glasses.” The person moved away; Harry tried to look at them but everything was blurry. “I’m afraid they’re broken. Here, I’ll fix them.” A moment later he was handed his glasses. 

Harry stumbled back when he realized who it was. “Malfoy.”

Malfoy sneered. “The Savior.” He quickly pocketed his handkerchief.

“What are you doing here?” He knew he was being rude, but he couldn’t believe that Draco Malfoy was standing in front of him. An enormous digital advertisement flashed behind Malfoy, and Harry realized he’d never seen the man around electricity. All around them, Muggles chatted on mobiles and zipped past in cars. It was like Malfoy had time-traveled from the nineteenth century.

Malfoy gathered himself up to his full height and stared down his nose at Harry. “None of your business.”

“Right.” Harry fingered his glasses. Why in the hell had Malfoy stopped to help him? He meant to thank Malfoy, but instead he said, “I thought you hated Muggles.” 

Malfoy shrugged. “Not always.”

“Oh,” he said stupidly.

“What’s this?” Malfoy snatched the book beneath Harry’s arm. He frowned at the cover. “ _Gladstone: A Biography_. Sounds riveting. Pray tell, why does the Savior have time to read a biography about a boring Muggle on a weekday? Aren’t there kittens that need saving?”

It’d been over a decade since he traded words with Malfoy, and he was having a hard time coming up with a snarky response. “I’m on sabbatical.”

Malfoy clicked his tongue. “What an exciting life you lead, Potter.” His voice dropped, and he sounded almost _evil_. His eyes bored into Harry. 

Harry just stared back. He’d forgotten that someone could have such a cold gaze. Malfoy’s was a pure grey that made Harry think of rivers frozen over. The man was truly dead on the inside.

“I . . . should be going,” he said.

“Of course.” Malfoy handed back the book. Their fingers brushed.

“I . . .” Harry willed his brain to start working again. “Thanks for my eye. And for my glasses.”

Malfoy just shrugged and walked away. Harry watched his back until Malfoy was swallowed up by the other pedestrians. It was only then that he understood Malfoy was probably headed back to St Mungo’s. Harry knew that he’d become a healer after the war, but somehow he’d blocked it from his mind. He couldn’t imagine Malfoy looking after anyone, let alone as a profession. 

When he returned home, he drank some tea at his kitchen counter and listened to the distant London traffic. He touched his cheek and jaw. Malfoy’s hand had been so soft that at first he’d thought a woman was helping him. He snorted into his cup. _Of course_ Malfoy had incredibly soft skin. He probably prowled around the Manor in those stupid moisturizing mittens while demanding that his house elves spoon-feed him at dinner. 

His hand had been warm, too. Harry spent a good five minutes debating whether Malfoy had cast a warming charm on his hands before examining his eye. Was it common practice for healers to warm their hands before seeing to a patient? Harry didn’t know.

Malfoy’s hands were still on his mind as he ate dinner with his family that night. He pushed his pot roast around his plate and imagined Malfoy holding a fork and a knife. His fingers were long and pale, and incredibly delicate. Too delicate. Harry could crush those fingers in his own. His wedding band had been thick silver—entirely too masculine for such a dainty finger. 

It was only much later, when Harry dozed in bed with Ginny snoring softly at his side, that his eyes shot open and he remembered: Malfoy hadn’t been wearing robes. It was an easy thing to overlook. Instead Malfoy had been in a long black overcoat. Expensive. With the collar turned up. For the life of him, Harry couldn’t remember if he’d glimpsed what was underneath. A Muggle suit? A tunic? Harry didn’t know why it mattered to him.

He rolled to his side and punched his pillow. There was no point in wondering about Malfoy. His questions would never be answered.

*

The next day Harry went straight to the coffee shop. Walking around the city didn’t have the same appeal after what happened the day before, so he thought he’d play it safe and just do some people watching indoors. He was slowly making his way through their coffee selection, and he ordered one of their seasonal lattes. His eyes lit up after his first sip: it almost tasted like treacle tart.

“I know a better place,” someone said right behind him, startling him. Harry turned around, and found Malfoy smirking down at him.

Harry glanced at his watch. “On your lunchbreak?” He was quite pleased that he kept his voice steady.

“How did you know?” Malfoy said, his voice all sarcasm. “I hope you’re not following me. I know you used to have a penchant for that.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “That was a long time ago.”

Malfoy froze; he looked himself up and down, then did the same to Harry. “What do you mean?”

“Funny,” Harry said, and then motioned to the other chair. “Would you like to sit down?”

Malfoy smirked at him again. “What civility! You know—I think I _will_ sit down.” He nabbed the other chair and made quite the show of unwinding his scarf and neatly unbuttoning his very fancy coat. The smirk never left his mouth, and Harry wondered vaguely if his lips ever got tired.

“What were you saying about another place?” Harry asked. “Just so you know, I have no interest in eating in St Mungo’s cafeteria.”

Malfoy snorted. “Believe it or not, I’m not here to tout St Mungo’s muddy tea and tasteless biscuits. No—I like going to the Crossings. This place is just too _corporate_.”

Harry sipped his coffee to hide his shock. He couldn’t get over that he was having a conversation with Malfoy in a place that was just so _Muggle_. The bloke next to them was guffawing loudly at a movie that he was watching on his lap computer. Above Malfoy’s head played a silent telly, and Harry felt like he was hallucinating. He’d assumed that Malfoy lived his life solely by candlelight and roaring fires; the man would probably go back to St Mungo’s and write out his medical notes on parchment for God’s sake. He had no business being around electricity.

“Is it magical?”

“Of course,” Malfoy said.

Harry shook his head. “Not interested, but thanks.”

“Ah—I understand. You have no interest in slumming it with us commoners.”

Harry thought about trying to explain himself, but what was the point? “You know me so well.”

“How about lunch? I know all the good places around here.”

“You want to have lunch with me?” he asked, amused.

Malfoy shrugged. “It was only a suggestion. I have loads of things I could be doing. I’m very important, you know.”

“Right,” he said, smiling. “That’s why you have the time to putter about in a Muggle coffee shop and ask me to lunch in the middle of the day.”

Malfoy scowled. “At least I have somewhere to be in an hour. You’re the one who’s _puttering about_.”

“I have somewhere to be in an hour,” Harry said, but they both knew he was lying. 

“Have a quick lunch with me then. There’s a shop a block down that makes adequate sandwiches.”

“I don’t know if I want a sandwich that’s just adequate.”

“My God,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. “Is there no satisfying you?”

Harry hesitated. “You’re actually being serious?” He thought about how softly Malfoy had cupped his cheek. “Sure, I can have lunch with you. If it’s a serious offer.”

Malfoy gave a little bow. “His highness accepts! Come on, then, dump out that sugary rubbish and get your jacket.” He didn’t wait for Harry to do any of this, and Harry had to hurriedly collect his things to follow him out.

On the street Malfoy moved just as briskly. He didn’t look at Harry, even when they had to stop for the crosswalk. Harry was already regretting saying yes.

“Keep up, Potter!” Malfoy yelled over his shoulder. “No reason to dawdle. It’s just around the corner.”

Harry suddenly imagined that Malfoy was leading him into an ambush; he clutched at his wand inside its holster. He felt pretty ridiculous when Malfoy stopped in front of a posh restaurant.

“I thought we were getting adequate sandwiches?”

Malfoy shrugged. “I changed my mind. You’ll like this place.”

Inside the restaurant was crowded. All the tables were little circular things. The décor was mostly art deco with frosted globe chandeliers, large geometric wall hangings, and regal ferns. In the middle of it all was a little stage that probably hosted an orchestra come dinnertime.

The host had a pencil-thin mustache and wore a fancy dress tailcoat. Harry suppressed a laugh.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” the host said.

Malfoy smirked at Harry when they were seated. “Not up to your standard?”

“I thought you didn’t have much time?” Harry said.

“They’re very quick,” Malfoy said. He ordered some dish in French, and Harry, not in the mood to try anything new, just asked for a bacon sandwich.

“I want to thank you for helping me yesterday,” Harry said awkwardly.

Malfoy waved dismissively. “I rather skip all the niceties and get to the interesting topics. For instance, why did you take a . . . sabbatical, I believe you called it. Is being an Auror not all you thought it’d be?”

Harry frowned, unsure of what to make of Malfoy’s questioning. “Well, I’ve been an Auror for fifteen years. Any assumptions I had about the job are long gone.”

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” Malfoy snorted, then leaned in. “Fine, I’ll ask more directly: Does your job disappoint you?”

“I hadn’t realized I’d agreed to an interrogation,” Harry said coolly. 

Malfoy smirked. “That’s a yes.” He ploughed on before Harry could respond: “Do you not like the people you work with? Or do you feel used by the Ministry?”

“I like my coworkers just fine,” Harry said, irritated.

“So then it’s the Ministry. Do you hate how they parade you around? You seem to enjoy yourself at the galas. But then there’s the photo shoots, the fundraisers, meetings with foreign governments. Does all of it make you feel like Christmas dinner with a bow around its neck?”

“Are you writing an article or something? Got Rita Skeeter stuffed somewhere?” Harry asked, and then paused. Skeeter was still in the tabloid business; it was entirely possible that she had united with Malfoy to fuck him over. It would explain a lot.

Malfoy sat back in his chair. He fiddled with his napkin, not looking at Harry. “I’m a healer, not a reporter,” he said, then fell silent.

Harry waited for Malfoy to continue. When the silence became uncomfortable, he said, “What about you? What made you go into medicine?”

“I don’t know,” he said, scowling down at his napkin. “I guess for the stereotypical reasons. I wanted to help people. I also did it because it was the easiest option. I’d gotten quite good at healing spells during the war, and recruiters wanted students who excelled in potions.”

“Yeah, but you chose to devote your life to caring for people. That doesn’t seem like you.”

Malfoy looked offended. “I am capable of empathy, you do realize. I’m not THAT much of a monster.”

Harry couldn’t decide if he wanted to be nice to Malfoy. “You lacked that capability at Hogwarts. You were a right terror.”

“I’ve changed,” Malfoy said, not meeting his eyes.

“You have a child,” Harry said.

“Yes.” Malfoy grinned proudly. “Would you like to see a photograph of him?”

Harry was a bit startled. “Sure.” Malfoy pulled out a pocket watch; on the inside was a small photo of a boy grinning and waving. Harry couldn’t help it: he laughed.

“What?” Malfoy said, and put the watch away.

“Nothing—it’s just that he looks so much like you.” 

“He’s better looking,” Malfoy said.

Harry studied Malfoy’s features, then felt his cheeks warm. He really didn’t know why, but he found it difficult to look at Malfoy. He resembled his aunt and father too much. Harry felt like Malfoy could see inside him and would use this to hurt him.

“He definitely doesn’t have to grow into his chin,” Harry said, hoping his tone was light.

Malfoy nodded seriously. “He’s got his mother’s chin. Do you have any photographs of your children?” Harry shook his head. “I guess it doesn’t matter—I see them in the newspaper all the time.”

“What’s your verdict?”

Malfoy shrugged. “They seem charming.” Harry raised his eyebrows. “Well, as charming as Weasley and Potter spawn could be.”

Harry laughed. He wanted to talk more about his kids, but he didn’t know if he trusted Malfoy not to say terrible things. He decided to risk it. “James is off to Hogwarts next year. I hate it.”

“They grow up so fast,” Malfoy said, and gazed out the window. 

“Are you worried about it like me?” Harry asked carefully.

Malfoy looked back at him. “Yes, but for different reasons. I want Scorpius to be happy. I want him to have friends. I don’t want the other kids to hate him because of me.”

“I doubt the other kids will hate him.” Harry was astonished that Malfoy was being so honest with him.

“Yes, well,” Malfoy said. “At any rate, he’s miles ahead in intelligence and athletic prowess than your children, so I shouldn’t be too worried.”

“You don’t know that!” Harry was outraged until he remembered that a few days ago Al had deliberately stuffed a toy wand up his own nose. He panicked when it got stuck and Harry was forced to pry it out.

“All I want is to be a good father.” Malfoy stared up at the ceiling. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I hope the world understands that Scorpius shouldn’t be doomed because of my failures.”

“Christ, Malfoy,” Harry said.

Malfoy blinked at him. “Did I say too much?”

“No, it’s just that—” Harry tried to find the right words “—you saying this stuff. It’s unexpected. It’s not like you.”

“You don’t know me,” Malfoy said, and he was right. Harry obviously didn’t have a clue about him.

Their food came then. They ate in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes. Harry paused mid-chew when a woman stepped up to the little stage, carrying—of all things—a ukulele. She was perhaps the ugliest woman Harry had ever seen. 

Malfoy leaned in. “She looks like Snape, but with tits.”

Harry gasped—he was right. She clutched the ukulele closer, her face pinched in concentration. Then she began to play, and it was awful. Harry didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or hide his face in secondhand embarrassment.

Malfoy looked down his nose at Harry; he crossed his arms ala Snape, utterly bat-like. His drawl was a near perfect imitation: “‘I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—but first, my rendition of _Hoggy Warty Hogwarts_ on the ukulele.’”

Harry couldn’t help it—he laughed, hard. “I don’t remember you being this funny.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Malfoy said.

_I’m sure you are_ , Harry wanted to reply.

Malfoy glanced at his watch and stood. “I must be going. Don’t bother trying to pay for anything. They know to put it on my tab.” He leaned down to shake his hand, and Harry prepared to get a face-full of his post-lunch breath, but all he smelled was Malfoy’s pleasant cologne.

“Well, old man,” Malfoy said, squeezing Harry’s fingers, “it’s been a lunch to remember.” He grinned, showing all his teeth, and Harry was reminded of a shark. 

“I shall cherish it always,” he said, wondering what his own face looked like. He was trying to smile, but he couldn’t hide his deep confusion. He paused. “You know—I wouldn’t mind doing this again.”

Malfoy dropped his hand. “Yes, well. Like I said, I’m very important. Not everyone can sit around reading all day.”

“So that’s a no then?” Harry was disappointed; he couldn’t say why.

“I—” There was something almost frightened in Malfoy’s eyes. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

“Sure,” he said. 

Malfoy left the restaurant; Harry lingered, trying to collect his thoughts. He was a bit shell-shocked. It seemed that Harry needed to toss out everything he’d previously assumed about adult Malfoy. It was rather unnerving, actually.

_He probably just wants something from me_ , Harry thought, and his pessimism cheered him up.

*

That night Harry was in the process of starting dinner when a large black owl pecked on his window. He found this strange; he’d never seen the owl before and Grimmauld Place had protective spells that barred strangers’ letters from reaching him. He’d be up to his eyeballs in fan mail otherwise.

When he opened the window the owl lifted his leg to him. Harry wiped his hands on his jeans and took the note. _Let me show you the Crossings_ , the note said. Harry was befuddled. There was no signature and he tried to remember what the hell the Crossings was. He searched his memory of his conversations with Malfoy. Then he remembered: Malfoy had wanted to take him to a place called the Crossings.

Harry examined the note. He knew he was probably being ridiculous, but he wasn’t about to respond to some anonymous letter. It might be a set up. He cast a few identification spells he’d learned on the job, which confirmed his initial assumption. Malfoy’s magic dotted the parchment like fingerprints, and Harry imagined he’d held the note for a long while before sending it.

The owl waited on his window sill like a sentinel. Harry’s heart sped up. There was something about the note that made him uncomfortable. It was almost like Malfoy was . . . _flirting_. No, it couldn’t be. There was no way to prove that from a sentence. Malfoy was just being terse to fuck with him. He was probably at home laughing at Harry’s confusion. Harry was embarrassed by his own thoughts.

He summoned some parchment to reply: _I can’t this week. Monday?_ He thought about leaving his note anonymous as well, but it seemed too childish. He signed _Harry_ , then paused. Should he put his last name? Were they on first name basis now?

“I tell you I’m beat,” Ginny said.

Harry yelled. “Christ—you scared me.”

“I’m sorry. You didn’t hear me come home?” She took off her robes and threw them over a chair. 

“No, I guess not.” He rolled up the note and gave it to the owl before he could think more about it. The owl took off with a screech.

“Who’s that?” she asked off-handedly. 

Harry stared at her. He didn’t want to tell her. God, why didn’t he want to tell her? He took a deep breath. “That owl was for Draco Malfoy.”

“What?” She laughed. “Why in the world would you owl _Malfoy_?”

“We had lunch today,” he said.

She was speechless. She sat down at the table. “How did you two manage that without killing each other?”

Harry shrugged. “He’s changed.”

“I’m sure he has.” She sobered up a bit. “I suppose it’s good that you are on friendly terms with him. It sets a good example for the kids.”

“It was so bewildering.” He nabbed the chair next to her. “He was actually nice to me.”

“The _Prophet_ sure likes him.” She rubbed her fingers together. “He’s donated a lot to us, which is saying something since word is the Malfoy fortune isn’t what it used to be.”

“You haven’t heard of him pushing a story about me?” Harry asked. “Nothing about me and my sabbatical?”

“No, of course not. I would’ve put an end to that shite.” She cupped his hand. “It’s weird, very weird, but I’m proud of you. The Malfoys did a lot of harm to the both of us, and it’s really big of you to look past that.”

“Yeah,” he said. Why had he been able to overlook Malfoy’s childhood cruelty? It was because Malfoy had been so gentle with him when he’d lost his glasses. He contemplated explaining this to Ginny, but then thought better of it. 

She lounged in her chair and rested her hands behind her head. “So, what’s for dinner?” She winked. 

Grinning, Harry said, “I dunno. I was gonna make something, but then I got distracted.”

“Sounds like we’re having takeout. I’ll go ask our little horrors what they want.”

There was tap on the window, and Harry rushed to see if the owl had returned in record time. He was disappointed when he found nothing there. It didn’t matter if Malfoy answered. It didn’t matter if he never saw Malfoy again. He would repeat this to himself until he believed it.


	3. Chapter 3

Monday arrived bright but cool. The trees were beginning to rust, and Harry looked forward to carving pumpkins and making homemade pumpkin juice with his kids. He took off for his usual haunts right before lunchtime. He hadn’t received a reply from Malfoy; he told himself he didn’t care, even though he’d spent the weekend glancing furtively at his windows for that black owl.

He Apparated to his customary alleyway. Malfoy was there waiting for him.

“You could’ve just responded to my owl. It would’ve saved you the waiting around,” Harry said.

Malfoy shrugged. “I haven’t been here for long. Are you ready? I’m starved.”

“Is this place far?”

Malfoy smirked. “I don’t think so, but I could always carry you.”

“What?” Harry shook his head, disbelieving.

“Or, you know, immobilize you and drag you through the streets.” Malfoy laughed and took up his usual brisk walk. 

Harry struggled to keep up. “I’m sure you’d love to drag me about.” What the hell was he saying?

Malfoy’s smirk deepened as if to say, _You have no idea_. They arrived at a very familiar place: King’s Cross Station. It was quite modern inside after its renovations, but they steered clear from the more crowded areas. Malfoy led him to an overlooked corner that was outside the dome ceiling. He came to a halt, but Harry didn’t know what for—there was nothing there. Then he blinked and a café appeared. A teacup flashed in the window and a sad little awning topped its front. 

Malfoy touched his shoulder. He whispered into Harry’s ear: “Only witches and wizards can see it. Been open for over a century. Remarkable when you consider how many Muggles swarm this place.”

Harry shivered and stepped away. “What are they known for?”

“Besides questionable characters and the occasional broom and dustpan ambush? Oh, and you can’t forget about the ghost train.”

“Ghost train?”

“I usually order their cheese and pickle; the tuna is pretty good too,” Malfoy said. He led them into the little café. It was cramped, but not uncomfortably so; it was obvious that the café was under some spatial charms.

They waited to order at the counter. All sorts of colorful people surrounded them. The man in front of Harry had antlers; he didn’t know if it was some sort of fashion choice or a spell gone horribly wrong. A witch at a corner table was having a very vocal debate with her cat: “You’re wrong! Constance Smuckerswag died in 1901, not 1905, and she _never_ stepped foot in Galicia!” The cat meowed and turned its back to her.

Harry ordered the corned beef from an older woman at the till; she clutched her chest when she recognized him. 

“Mr Potter,” she whispered fervently, “it’s such an honor to meet you!”

“Err—can I have a cup of tea as well?” He could sense Malfoy laughing silently behind him.

“Of course!” She disappeared in the display case for a moment. “Here, please have a slice of cake on the house. I insist!”

“I must say: I’m quite jealous,” Malfoy said close to his ear. 

Harry glared at him and dropped some coins on the counter even though the woman protested. He took his cup and found a table a little separated from the main huddle. 

“You forgot your cake,” Malfoy said, directing the plate to land on the table. “It must be so difficult to be worshipped everywhere you go.”

“I don’t ask for it,” Harry grumbled. He thought about not eating the cake but it glistened with glazed strawberries and fluffy whipped cream. He tasted the cream: it was fresh. “Here, help me eat this.” He handed Malfoy a fork.

Malfoy hesitated before accepting the fork. He took a bite and some cream caught on his lip; his tongue licked it away.

Their sandwiches floated over to them; Harry hastily pushed the cake aside to make room. “Cheese and pickle?” he asked Malfoy. “Seems a bit pedestrian for you.”

Malfoy snorted. “What kind of sandwich do you expect me to get?”

“Oh, you know,” Harry waved his hand, “one with some sort of expensive and morally questionable meat. Veal, for example.”

“I’m saving veal for dinner.” Malfoy smiled like a villain.

Harry laughed. “I don’t doubt it.”

Malfoy looked down at his plate, frowning slightly. Harry wondered what he was thinking.

“So, tell me about the ghost train.”

“I’m surprised you don’t know about it,” Malfoy said. “It’s quite legendary. Back in 1945 a train crashed right through here. Now, every year, at the same time, the ghost of that train relives its last harrowing moments.”

“That’s incredible.” There was always _something_ about magic that still shocked him. “Does the café close for that day? I doubt customers want to have their tea during something like that.”

“You’d be surprised. I think a few stubborn idiots stick it out.”

Harry was beginning to understand why people liked the cafe so much. It had a well-worn charm: the floors were old and scuffed, and the walls were paneled in a dark oak that’d been nicked in several places. The varnish on the gas lamps and window frames had melted away decades ago; the furniture was grubby but functional.

“The corned beef’s great,” Harry said.

Malfoy smiled at him, and he was almost . . . pretty. Something unpleasant and confusing twisted in Harry. He’d always thought Malfoy was a bit odd looking, especially with all that pureblood inbreeding. The man was too pale, too pointy, and his skin looked cold enough to burn. But sunlight from the window warmed his face and there was something attractive in the way he gazed at Harry. Something vulnerable. 

“What?” Malfoy tucked his hair behind his ear, and his fingers looked elegant and bitable.

Shrugging, Harry said, “You look different, that’s all.”

Then, as if he was doing it on purpose to fuck with Harry even more, Malfoy blushed. _He blushed._

“Will you stop looking at me like I have two heads?” Malfoy spat.

“Right,” Harry said, and forced his gaze anywhere but Malfoy. He didn’t understand what was happening. He didn’t even like blondes. He didn’t even like _men_.

They were finishing up their sandwiches when a pecking came from the window. Harry recognized the light brown owl and jumped up to let in the animal. The owl dropped a note to the table, stole a bit of his crust, and then raced out.

“What is it?” Malfoy said.

“A note from Molly, I’m assuming,” Harry said. He read over the note. “Al’s taken ill.” His heart was thumping. “She’s dealt with loads of childhood illnesses—it must be serious if she felt the need to owl me.”

“I can take a look at him,” Malfoy offered.

Harry stared at him. “Oh—right.” Of course he should let Malfoy examine Al; it would be incredibly convenient not to have to take Al to hospital. Harry’s chest tightened at the thought.

Malfoy’s face darkened. “You can trust me with your kid, Potter.”

“I know,” Harry said, trying to smile at him. “Are you sure you won’t be missed?”

Shrugging, Malfoy said, “I’ll send notice that an emergency came up and I needed to visit a patient at home.” He stood to shoulder on his coat. “I assume he’s at the Burrow?”

Harry stared some more. There were words that sounded completely nutty coming from certain people, and Malfoy saying “the Burrow” was one of them. “Err—yes.”

Malfoy stuck out his arm. “I’ll need to side-along with you.”

Harry scrambled to get his jacket on as well. He grabbed at Malfoy’s upper arm and warmth seeped through the many layers. Despite all appearances, Malfoy was an actual human being with blood pumping through his veins. Harry had to breathe deeply and clear his mind before Apparating, or else thoughts of Malfoy’s very real body would make him splinch them both.

They arrived at the Burrow’s front door, and Harry was pleased at his accuracy. There was shuffling from inside the house, and a moment later Molly threw open the door.

“I heard your ‘pop’,” she said, but stilled when she caught sight of Malfoy. Her eyebrows shot up. “Healer Malfoy.”

Malfoy bowed his head. “Madam.” 

Molly reddened. “Please, ‘Mrs Weasley’ will do.” She ushered them inside. 

“We came as soon as I got your owl,” Harry said. “Malfoy here offered to take a look at Al.”

“I didn’t know you two were friends.” Molly flicked her wand and all the things needed for a proper tea came zooming out of the kitchen. 

“We aren’t,” Malfoy said quickly. 

“We’ve been meeting for lunch,” Harry said, because there was nothing to hide. If Ginny knew they were occasionally meeting, then so could her mother. 

“Ah,” Molly said, her expression puzzled. Harry could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “How do you take your tea, Healer Malfoy?”

“Lots of milk and sugar, please,” he said. 

Molly nodded approvingly. “That’s how my husband takes it too.” A rag wouldn’t stop polishing the teapot. She flinched and sent the rag scurrying away. “My apologies—we take pride in our antiques.” 

“Of course,” Malfoy said, his expression neutral. Harry didn’t even know that teapot was an antique. 

Molly filled them in as they sipped their tea. “The kids are having a kip upstairs. I put Al in his own room so that James and Lily don’t disturb him.”

Harry’s stomach lurched. “What’s wrong exactly?”

“I don’t know for sure—that’s why I owled you.” She patted his hand. “I don’t think it’s anything too serious, but I’ve raised my fair share of kids, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Harry stood abruptly. “Let me see him.” 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Molly said, but got to her feet as well. “He’s in Ron’s old room—be sure to take the stairs quietly or else you’ll have the ghoul screeching.”

“Thank you for the tea,” Malfoy said stiffly and followed Harry to the stairs. It took everything in Harry to not race to his son.

They tiptoed up the stairs; Harry cursed under his breath when they came to Ron’s old room and the hallway was cold. How was his son supposed to get well when he was freezing half to death? He cast a warming charm and kept his wand in hand.

Malfoy paused, waiting for Harry to make the first move into the room. Harry tried to calm his face before entering; it would only make things worse if Al saw him rattled. 

On the other side of the door, Al was propped up in bed and looking mildly bored. He seemed perfectly normal except he was covered in purple boils. 

Malfoy’s eyes widened when he caught sight of Al, and Harry didn’t know if it was because of the boils or because Al looked so much like Harry.

Al regarded Malfoy with suspicion. “Who’s he?”

It took Malfoy a moment to answer. “I’m a healer. Your dad said you were ill.” He crouched at the bed and waved his wand over Al. He muttered to himself and seemed to read something in the gold symbols that issued from his wand. 

Harry tried to give his son a reassuring smile, but the boils alarmed him a great deal and it unsettled him to see Malfoy and Al in the same room. He did his best to remain focused on Al, but there was something incredibly interesting about Malfoy in the middle of healing. Harry couldn’t remember ever seeing such concentration on the man’s face, and it was all to help someone else.

“I’ll need to take a sample,” Malfoy muttered. Al started panicking. 

“You’re not poking me with anything!” he screamed. 

“Al, please,” Harry said.

“It won’t hurt.” Malfoy put his back to Al and conjured a little needle and vial that floated in the air. 

“I don’t believe you,” Al said.

Turning back around, Malfoy smirked at Al. “I like this kid.”

Harry stroked Al’s hair, careful not to touch his skin. “He’s a handful,” he said, and grinned warmly at his son.

“Stay away from me!”

Malfoy leaned down, but Al shot his hand out and Malfoy stumbled back. An angry welt cut Malfoy’s cheek.

“Al!” Harry said.

“It’s all right—just a little unintentional magic. I get it all the time.” Malfoy caught Harry’s gaze and nodded to Al. Harry understood.

“Al, love, look at me,” Harry said. 

Al’s eyes were frantic. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. 

“We know.” Harry rubbed Al’s chest and felt how hard his little heart was pumping. His jumper was soaked in sweat. “Look at me. Everything’s going to be all right.” Harry held Al’s attention long enough for the needle to prick a boil on Al’s hand and a little puss to drain into the vial. Both vanished once the job was complete.

“That was very good, Al,” Malfoy said, his voice soothing. “Now I need to cast a spell and you need to remain as still as possible. Can you do that for me?”

“For how long?” Al said.

“Only for a couple of minutes,” Malfoy said.

Al burrowed down in his pillow. “Okay, go for it.”

Malfoy motioned for Harry to step away from the bed. Then he began casting, muttering spells that Harry only half-understood. When he was done, a golden bubble covered Al, its membrane pulsing like something living.

“You can move again when the bubble dissolves, but right now I’m going to step outside the room for a moment with your dad. Is that all right?” Malfoy asked. Al gave a little nod.

Harry wanted nothing more than to hold his son. “I’ll be gone for only a second. You’re being so brave.” 

Al smiled weakly.

Malfoy motioned to the door; Harry held up a finger and grinned reassuringly at Al before following. In the hallway, Malfoy conjured up another little vial and handed it to Harry.

“It’s a sleeping aid. Not too powerful. I’d give you more but that’s all I have in stock.”

Harry shook the vial and grimaced at its syrupy contents. “Are you sure he needs this?”

“It’d be best if he moved as little as possible. We don’t want him irritating the boils or they might start bursting and that would be bad.” Malfoy fingered the welt on his face. “Also, sleep always helps the body fight off illness. It would do him good to get some rest.”

Harry gnawed on his lip. “Do you have any idea what’s wrong with him?”

Shrugging, Malfoy said, “I have a few guesses. I think it’s fine if he stays here for the time being, but don’t try to move him, and you need to owl me if he develops a rash, especially if it’s on his chest.”

Harry paled. “A rash? How will I know if he has a rash? Should I check him every hour or so?”

“No—I’ll help strip him to his pants before I leave. It’ll help to let the boils breathe and then you will easily be able to see if he gets a rash. Cast a few warming charms and he'll be comfortable enough.”

Harry flinched. “That’s all right. I’ll have Molly help me.”

“Right.” Malfoy was still fingering his welt. “You should get your hands on some mild pain reliever. I can give you some recommendations, but something tells me Mrs Weasley has her preferences.”

Harry blinked, unable to wrap his head around Malfoy calling Molly “Mrs Weasley.” He stepped closer, batting Malfoy’s hand away from his face. “Here, let me.”

Malfoy remained still as Harry whispered a healing charm and followed the line of the welt with his wand. Malfoy’s eyes glittered strangely, his breathing coming faster. Harry’s hand shook and he shoved his fists into his pockets when he was done. 

“Sorry again about that,” Harry said.

Malfoy touched his cheek absentmindedly. “I expect it when treating children.”

“That’s good.” Harry stared down at his feet, suddenly unable to look at Malfoy. “So you’ll owl us when the results come in or do I need to contact St Mungo’s personally?”

Malfoy was silent for a moment. “I’ll owl you.”

“Thank you so much for doing this.” Harry glanced in Malfoy’s direction and thought he saw a red tint to the man’s cheeks. He couldn’t be sure, though.

“Of course. It’s my profession.” Malfoy coughed and his hands came up to smooth down his coat or pick at some lint. “You should receive the results by tomorrow morning. Remember not to move him and please administer the sleeping aid, even if you don’t think he needs it. And please . . . contact me if you any concerns.”

Usually Harry liked to clutch a person’s shoulder when giving a proper handshake, but he knew he needed to limit his touching after seeing to Malfoy’s cheek. He held out his hand and vaguely hoped that Malfoy wouldn’t take it. 

Malfoy grasped his hand quite professionally, his palm warm and dry. He nodded more at their handshake than Harry. “Potter.” He disappeared down the staircase.

Remembering the weird bubble thing, Harry nearly called after Malfoy in a panic, but he poked his head inside the room and found the bubble gone. He wondered if Malfoy got the information he needed.

“Dad?” Al tried to raise himself up.

“Try not to move too much. Just relax.”

Al huffed. “I’m so _bored_. I wish Gran had telly.”

“So I take it you’re not in too much pain?” 

“It only hurts when I move fast. What’s wrong with me?” His eyes were wide.

“We don’t know yet,” Harry replied, and he was grateful that his voice remained steady.

Molly entered the room a few moments later, a potion bottle and a glass of water hovering at her shoulder. “Healer Malfoy explained that Al needed a pain reliever. I’ve also owled Ginny and told her to come over here after work.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, and grabbed the potion and water. He grinned. “You don’t suppose we can lug a telly up here? Al’s _bored_.”

“Could you imagine? Arthur would never leave the house!”

Al was glaring at them. “It’s not a joke. I am bored.” Then he gave them a look that said, _How are you going to entertain me?_

Molly clicked her tongue. “There’s nothing wrong with being a little bored. Life isn’t all thrills.”

“How about we get a wireless up here? I know the Harpies are playing the Falcons soon.”

“There’s one we’re not using on the floor below,” Molly said, a little disapproving. 

Al shrugged. “I suppose.”

“That’s what we’ll do then, but first I need you to drink this potion,” Harry said.

After Al drank the potion and was stripped to just his pants, Harry and Molly went down to fetch the wireless. Molly shook her head as she gave the thing a quick dust and handed it to Harry.

“You and Ginny spoil those kids,” she said. “It does no good to always give them what they want.”

“He’s covered in boils,” Harry answered, all ice. “I’m supposed to say no to a little entertainment when he’s ill?”

Molly shrugged. “It’s not my place, but—”

“Then let’s not talk about it.” He took the wireless upstairs and turned it on just in time for the start of the game.

“Oh, God, turn that rubbish off,” Ginny said from the doorway a little while later. “I refuse to listen to our games until we get rid of that awful new coach.”

Harry stood to kiss her cheek. “We haven’t been enjoying it much either.”

“I want telly,” Al said.

“A telly at the Burrow? You’re barking.” Ginny took up a chair beside Al. “Are you in pain?”

Harry went down to check up on his other kids. They were eating dinner at the kitchen table. Molly didn’t get up to serve him a bowl, and he knew it was because of their earlier conversation.

“Dad—teach me some Quidditch after dinner,” James said. “Gran’s got all those brooms just sitting there. I’ve been _dying_ for you to show me some stuff.”

He ladled himself some soup. “I don’t know.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “I don’t think it’d be fair to Al.”

James groaned. “Why do we all have to suffer when he’s the one ill? Nobody else got boils!”

“You’re not _suffering_. Right now is just not the time to play Quidditch.” He hoped Molly appreciated the sternness in his voice. He kissed Lily on the forehead and wiped some soup from her chin.

When Ginny came down to have a bowl of soup, Arthur had returned home and was playing a card game with the kids.

“I was thinking,” she said, blowing on a spoonful, “I could take James and Lily home for the night while you stayed here with Al. Mum told me that Malfoy doesn’t want him moved.”

Harry watched her face. “That sounds all right.” He hesitated. “What do you think about Malfoy volunteering to help Al?”

“It’s incredible.” Ginny shook her head. “The guilt must’ve been eating him up all these years.” 

“Probably.” He thought about Malfoy strictly as someone who was once a Death Eater and was now seeking forgiveness. This required some heavy compartmentalizing. It was like he was now an entirely different person from the man who had healed Malfoy’s cheek.

He went up to keep Al company when Gin left with James and Lily. Molly brought in a blanket and pillow for him to curl up on the chair. She could’ve helped him transfigure the chair into a little cot but he didn’t point it out. Al had taken the sedative earlier and was now sleeping quite peacefully. 

Somehow Harry managed to fall asleep in the chair, his chin nearly impaled by his knobby knees. He awoke sometime later; all was quiet in the house, and a light breeze pressed against the window. Casting a dim _lumos_ , he pulled back the covers on Al to check his chest, and gasped. A sickly green rash bloomed from Al’s throat to his stomach. Al was asleep but it seemed to Harry that he was struggling to breathe.

“My God,” Harry said, and left the room in search of Molly. He paused on the stairs, remembering that Malfoy had instructed Harry to contact him if anything happened. He rushed down the stairs in search of the Weasley’s owl but forced himself to slow down when he remembered the ghoul. 

He was tying the letter to the owl’s leg when he realized that it would take too long to get an answer back from Malfoy. Cursing, he patted the owl’s head apologetically, and rushed to the Weasley’s Floo. He threw down a handful of powder and called, “Malfoy Manor!” 

A small boy answered his call.

“Oh, hello,” Harry said. 

The boy narrowed his eyes at Harry. “It’s quite late, you know.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry. But can I speak to your father?” _I’m talking to Malfoy’s son_ , he thought.

“He’s asleep.”

“Yes, I’m sure he is. But my son—he’s your age, actually—is his patient, and there’s an emergency.” 

“There’s always an emergency,” the boy said. “Why don’t you try St Mungo’s?”

“Please. Go wake up your father. This isn’t a time for jokes.”

“I’m not joking.” The boy tried to rub away his smirk with a hand.

Now it was Harry’s turn to become insolent. “Do you know _who_ I am?” God, he hated himself.

The boy hesitated; and then he leaned forward to get a better look at Harry. His eyes widened in shock. “You’re Harry Potter!”

“Yes,” he bit out, hoping his voice frightened the boy. “Now, please, your father.”

“Oh, all right.” The boy stood up and yelled, “MELINDA!”

A house elf appeared with a pop. “Yes Master Scorpius?”

“Please fetch my father. It’s an emergency. _Harry Potter_ wants to speak to him.”

The elf squeaked and disappeared. Scorpius stared at Harry.

“Do you like her name? I’ve heard elves giving themselves proper names is quite new.”

“Err—they had proper names before. Kind of.” Harry couldn’t care less about elf naming habits at the moment. He glanced at his watch and cursed silently. He shouldn’t have left his son up there alone. Al could already have choked to death while he waited on his hands and knees for Malfoy.

Malfoy appeared in front of him, his hair tousled. He blinked sleepily at Harry. “What’s happened?”

Harry couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s Al—he’s developed that rash. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I think he’s having a hard time breathing, too.”

Malfoy swore. “I’ll come through in just a moment. Go back up to him and make sure his head is elevated.”

Why would Al need his head elevated? He raced back up the stairs and barged into the room; Al was still asleep, but each breath rattled in his chest. Harry used his wand to carefully raise him to incline on the pillows. Al’s eyes fluttered, as if he was about to wake up, but the sedative held him down. 

Malfoy entered the room; he’d thrown on an unbuttoned cloak over his pajamas. Harry stumbled back to give him space.

“What’d you reckon’s wrong with him?” Harry was shaking. 

Malfoy cast the same diagnostic spells from earlier. His expression was fierce as he read the symbols. 

Malfoy saw how scared Harry was and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Al’s going to be just fine. I think he caught some virus, that’s it. Look at me.” He barely touched Harry’s chin; Harry raised his eyes to him. “Your son is not going to die. Everything’s okay.”

“Why does he sound like that?” he whispered.

“It’s just a reaction to the sleeping aid. A bit of mucus is building up in his lungs. It’s easier for his body to cough it out when he isn’t flat on his back.” Malfoy stared into his eyes, his face close enough that Harry felt his breath. What was happening between them wasn’t normal. Friends didn’t stare at each other like this. 

Harry didn’t move away; he didn’t look away. Instead he licked his lips and inched closer. “And the rash?”

“I have a potion that should help,” Malfoy murmured.

“Dad?” Al said weakly.

His voice startled them. Malfoy went over to Al to check his pulse.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked.

“Thirsty,” he rasped. 

Malfoy conjured some water for him. “You need to take another potion now,” he said to Al.

“It’ll help you feel better,” Harry said. They gave Al the potion and his rash began to lessen in color. His breathing also cleared a little.

“You’re being so brave,” Malfoy whispered to Al. He took out his handkerchief to blot away the sweat on Al’s forehead. 

Something intense rose in Harry. It felt uncontrollable, like a wave about to take him under. Malfoy was _gorgeous_. He was tall and elegant, and he put his hands on Harry when he shouldn’t. Maybe he was just handsy. Maybe he was simply interested in redemption. Harry didn’t care. He wanted Malfoy. They were both married and had children, but _he didn’t care_. He wanted Malfoy and there was nothing he could do about it.

He staggered into the hallway and almost collided with Molly.

“Is Healer Malfoy with him?” she asked. He didn’t respond.

He found himself in the kitchen. He reached for the kettle to make tea but stopped. No, he needed to be out of the house. Just for a minute. He went out to their garden; figures hovered above him in the window. He ran in no particular direction. The cold air cut his throat. He was desperate to think of nothing. 

The sky held a thousand watchful faces. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He only stopped when he choked for air. He fell to his knees, not knowing if he wanted to laugh or sob. Instead he laid on his back quietly. The ground wet his skin. He was having a tantrum. He was ridiculous. He was the most disgusting man on earth.

His son was _in pain_ while he laid in the mud and thought about fucking his old schoolboy enemy. He’d wanted Malfoy to chase after him. He’d wanted his son’s healer to leave his bedside and—do what? It was so dark out here in the field; he would’ve let Malfoy do anything.

When he made it back to the Burrow Malfoy had already gone.

“We didn’t know where you were. Why are you covered in mud?” Molly said.

“I—I needed some air.” He was trembling. “What’s the update on the rash?”

“The potion worked. Healer Malfoy left us the last dose. He said to go to St Mungo’s if anything else happens.”

“That’s good to hear.” He clutched a chair, afraid he’d fall.

“My dear boy,” Molly said, taking pity on him. “Take off those clothes. I’ll wash them. Let’s get some breakfast in you. You’re no good to anyone in this condition!”

Harry did as he was told. It felt good to have someone take care of him.

*

Harry spent the following week looking after Al. The sample confirmed that a virus had caused his boils, and he’d been ordered on bed rest until he fully recovered. Harry didn’t mind tending to his son because it distracted him from the events at the Burrow.

His desire for Malfoy shadowed his days like a silhouette looming in the doorway. He couldn’t stop thinking about the other man. After years and years of only desiring Gin, his longing for Malfoy made him feel closer to his younger self. He remembered some of the anxieties he had when he was courting Cho and Gin, and it was like he was discovering a part of him that had been lost.

He should’ve felt more guilt, but he was too entertained. His infatuation made the mundane spark. He smiled at nothing; he laughed when no one else was around. His kids sensed the change in his mood and they were elated. They tackled him out of nowhere, two against one, and he wrestled with them on the living room floor and in the tiny foyer. “Ha! Like you will ever conquer me! I’m _Harry Potter_!” he’d yell. And they’d squeal and laugh when he let them pin him down.

When he did manage to leave the house he walked the chilled streets of London, gulping the bitter air until his chest ached, gazing frankly into the faces of Muggles and daring them to speak to him. He hadn’t seen Malfoy since the night at the Burrow, and their only interaction had been through owls that strictly focused on Al’s recovery. The distance increased his good mood because Malfoy remained a fantasy. Harry could obsess over every questionable moment between them without feeling like he was betraying Ginny. More importantly, it was easy to convince himself that his desire had no consequences when sex with Malfoy was still very much in the abstract.

He’d never before considered having sex with men. It wasn’t because the possibility disgusted him; he just couldn’t visualize his body with another man. He tried to imagine being naked with Malfoy and thought it’d be a bit like shagging someone who was all pelvic bone and sharp elbows. He associated so much about intimacy with the softness of Ginny’s body. Malfoy was probably soft in areas too, but he would also be broad and unyielding. Harry thought about running his hands over his strong shoulders, and gulped.

His curiosity was overwhelming. There was still no concrete proof that Malfoy wanted him, but he had to know what it could be like. Then, one late afternoon, he remembered that box from George. He made sure Al was still asleep before going to his room and getting the box from under his bed. The contents were still intimidating. He ignored the potions and toys and selected the magazine with the bloke on the cover.

His heart was pounding in his ears. He took up the magazine on the bed. His hand shook as he flipped through its pages.

There wasn’t immediate arousal. He was too confused for that. He had never seen men’s bodies in such positions. There was something so vulnerable and delicate about the pictures. It was like the photographer had whispered to the models, “it’s okay, you can be soft. I won’t tell anyone.” They weren’t all winners; he almost doubted his attraction until he came across a blond man lounging in a chair while he got his cock sucked. His cock was red and glistening, his stomach clenched, a hot flush on his chest. Harry stared at his face: the man smirked into the camera, completely disinterested with the bloke sucking him off. Harry couldn’t breathe. The man threw his head back, his arrogance crumbling beneath the onslaught of pleasure, and he reached out—not for his partner—but for the arms of the chair, his orgasm something private he wasn’t willing to share with anyone else.

Harry pressed a hand to his erection, trying to contain himself; he hadn’t realized he was so close. He fingered his zipper. Was he really going to do this? He slipped inside his pants to grip himself. He was hot and a bit wet in his hand: touching his own cock had taken on more significance. Would Malfoy feel like this if Harry ever touched him? He cringed, and hated the direction of his thoughts. No—it was better if he focused on the man in the picture. He palmed himself as he watched the man’s face, the tightening of his fingers on the chair, and knew he was too close—too fucking close. His eyes shut, his thighs trembling; he should’ve taken off his jumper before he started because now he was burning up.

Malfoy was on his knees in front of him, his mouth curling into a cruel smile. He didn’t touch Harry, but his eyes ate him up, his hands fisting the fabric of his expensive trousers. He leaned closer. “Give me what I want,” he whispered, and Harry came so fucking hard. The sob he made was embarrassing.

He collapsed in his own mess; he was dizzy and on the edge of unconsciousness. His eyes snapped open: his children! But, no, James and Lily were at the Burrow and Al was still fast asleep. There was no way Al could’ve heard him. He slowly stood, his legs still shaking a bit. He hesitated. He didn’t want to hide the magazine; he didn’t want it to become physical evidence of his guilt. 

He took a long shower, pressing his forehead to the cool tile, turning the faucet hotter and hotter. The spray felt like needles on his back, and the pain grounded him. Everything would be all right if he carried this pain with him.

When Harry came back into the bedroom, Gin was casually flipping through his porn magazine on the bed. He stilled in the doorway.

“This is interesting,” she said, smiling up at him.

He didn’t know what to say; he didn’t dare speak. 

She read his face. “It’s fine; come over here.” She patted the space next to her. 

He sat down beside her and glanced at the page she was on. His throat constricted. The photograph was of two naked men; one was rimming the other. 

“Those are some terrific arses.” Her voice was all humor. Reddening, he tried not to hide his face and failed. “Oh, hon, it’s not that big of a deal.” She pulled at his fingers but he refused to let go.

“It _is_ a big deal,” he finally said.

Gin laughed. “Why? You’re still attracted to me and that’s all that matters. So what if you like the idea of two blokes shagging?”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Doesn’t it bother you? Aren’t you afraid I might be—you know—”

“Secretly gay?” She snorted. “I’m pretty sure I’d know after a decade of marriage.” She caressed his thigh. “Also I’d hope that you’d feel comfortable enough to tell me. We’ve always been a big believer in honesty.”

He took a shuddering breath and looked at her. “You’re right; I’m not secretly gay.” But he might be secretly in love with another man. No, not love. He might be secretly infatuated with another man.

Laughing again, she said, “Yes, I’m glad we’ve sorted that out.” Her attention turned back to the magazine. She watched the man greedily tongue-fuck his partner; there was no sound, but your mind filled in the moans and slurping. “Do you want me to do this to you?”

“What?” He searched her face, trying to decipher her mood. “You’d . . . be into that?”

She shrugged. “After smacking your bum with a few cleaning spells, sure.”

“What? But—” He fell silent, not sure what he was trying to say. 

“Do you think I’m some kind of prude?” Her voice took on an edge. “After fucking me for all my adult life, I’d think you’d know that I’m definitely not a prude.”

“I don’t think that! It’s just—don’t you think it would’ve come up? Why did you never suggest it before?”

She looked at him in amazement. “It’s not like it’s number one on my ‘must do’ list! I’m not lying in bed at night wondering what your arsehole tastes like.”

“Yes, but it just seems like something you’d know that you’d want to do. Something that would come up after all these years.”

“I don’t know if I’ll like it! I’m just saying that I’m open to trying it out. What—do you think I was eating blokes out at Hogwarts?”

He flinched at her phrasing. “No! I don’t think that!”

“Then what’s the problem? Do you not want me to do it? We don’t have to, you know. Was this magazine supposed to be just for you? Your secret thing that no one else knows about? Because I’m okay with that too.”

Astonished, he said, “You’re okay with me having secret sexual fantasies when you don’t?”

She scoffed. “I have secret sexual fantasies. You just don’t know about them because _they’re secret_.” She laughed when he gaped at her. “What I’m trying to say is that I think it’s just fine for couples to not know every last thing about each other. If you want to secretly get off to blokes fucking each other, then by all means.”

“Why don’t you care though? I’m pretty sure other people care about these sorta things.”

She shrugged. “I trust you.” 

It felt like somebody had punched him in the stomach. He pressed a hand to his chest and fought against the urge to hyperventilate. He hadn’t fucked Malfoy. All he did was touch his face. There was nothing to be that guilty about.

“Harry?” She squeezed his thigh, sensing his panic. 

He had to swallow a few times before he could speak. “I’m okay—it’s just a lot to take in.” _You’re lying to her_ , his mind added. _She’s too good for you to lie to her_.

Her hand dragged up his thigh and curled into his waistband. “You wanna try it?”

Gulping, he said, “I—don’t know. I mean—” What did he mean? He liked the idea of someone licking him open, but he didn’t know if he wanted Gin to be that person. She was his wife and he took care of her. Not financially, but sexually. He couldn’t remember ever being that vulnerable with her during their love making. 

“Are you nervous? We can work up to it. I could suck you off and just rub your arsehole as I do it.”

“God, Gin,” he said, hiding his face again. He didn’t know why all this was making him so embarrassed.

She pushed him back a bit and crawled into his lap. She nibbled along his jaw and whispered hotly into his ear: “We don’t have to do it now. You need to feel how wet I am though.” She undid her trousers and guided his hand into her knickers.

“What about the kids?”

“I told Mum to keep James and Lily for a little while longer; I just checked Al and he’s still enjoying his sedatives.” 

“Fuck,” he said, a thrill running through him at how easy his fingers slipped inside her. He aimed locking and silencing spells at the door. He didn’t want to take any chances. His hand was confined by Gin’s pants, but he managed to massage her clit oh so softly, just the way she liked it when they were revving up.

She clutched at his shoulders and let out a pant. “I want you inside me.”

He kissed her throat, grinning against her skin. “Not so fast.” Freeing his hand, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into her hair. She smelled so fucking good.

She hummed. “This is nice.” She broke their hug to remove her blouse and bra. Her breasts burned in his hands. He pushed her breasts together and pressed his face to them, breathing them in. They were fuller after having the kids, and the weight of them in his hands made his cock throb.

He thrust up and she grinded on him. God, he couldn’t wait until they were fully naked. He wanted to tease her by dragging the head of his cock over her lips. He grabbed her breast with both hands and took much of it into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over her nipple. He bit down a bit and her eyes fluttered. He did the same with the other breast.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” he said lowly. He slid away from her to stand at the foot of the bed. Everything would be okay if he made this good for her.

She knew how much he liked this part. Her eyes were dark, her face flushed. She slowly shimmied out of her trousers, widening her legs as she went, until her trousers were on the floor and her soaked knickers were on display. She slipped her hands over her head to rest under their pillows, arching up a bit; everything about her pose said: Do what you want with me.

He cupped himself through his jeans and straightened his back. A power stance. He couldn’t describe how fucking powerful it made him feel to loom over her when she was just down to her knickers and he was fully clothed. They’d fucked a few times with him in full Auror regalia and her completely starkers, and it had been _incredible_.

“Are you just gonna stare at me all night? Or are you gonna man up and take what’s being offered?”

“So mouthy,” he whispered. “I don’t like mouthy girls.”

Her eyes glittered. “Then shut me up.”

His stomach clenched. Why in the world had he been obsessing over Draco fucking Malfoy when he had this utterly delicious woman as his wife? God, he loved her. He loved her more than he could ever love anyone else.

He crawled onto the bed and grasped her thighs, yanking her to him. She laughed breathlessly. He pressed his open mouth to her cunt and tongued the wet fabric. Following the outline of her lips, he sunk his tongue as far as it would go, moaning. Her knickers tasted salty, but he breathed in deeply, loving her unique smell. He loved that he carried that smell with him hours after tasting and fingering her.

She whimpered. “Please—I want it.”

He smacked a breast and she arched into his hand. “Show me how much you want it.” 

She scrambled up to tug his shirt off; he’d thrown it on before fully drying off and the collar and back were a bit wet. She kissed his neck and tongued his nipple; she bit down and he stifled a whine. She made a show of slowly undoing his jeans and her hands lingered on his arse. He moved away to yank off his jeans and pants, and after he was done her hands returned to his backside. 

Her finger brushed over his hole. “Fuck,” he gritted out. It felt good, really good. Her other hand kneaded his cheek while her finger began rubbing more insistently. He glanced down at her face and couldn’t help but laugh: Her expression was fiercely determined. She caught his eye and her face relaxed. Suddenly they were both laughing, their bodies rocking together.

“I was trying to make it good for you,” she said in between laughs.

“Next time.” He slid her knickers off and leaned up. He grabbed her thighs again and thrust into her, hard. She cried out.

He fell into a rhythm. She was bearing down so hard on him. He had to slow his thrusts or she’d push him out. “Hold yourself open,” he ordered, and she knew what he was asking. She pulled back her labia, revealing her clit to him, and he watched his thumb work her flesh and his cock slide in and out, her walls clinging to him. This part always took a lot of concentration; his mind swirled, his balls tightened, and all he wanted to do was take his pleasure from her. But he had to calm himself—his wife needed more to be satisfied. 

He pulled out and put his fingers inside her. He conjured some lube so he could work her with three, then four fingers. She dug her nails into his shoulders. After all these years, he knew what pushed her over the edge; he grabbed her throat with his other hand, choking her a bit, and her mouth fell open, her eyes rolling back. She was panting so fucking loudly; it made him crazy.

“Deeper,” she whispered. He obeyed, leaning over her, reaching as far as he could inside her, the tips of his fingers rubbing upward, his thumb rotating over her clit. She thrashed as he coaxed her to the brink; he wished he’d tied her legs down. She arched her back and clenched hard around his fingers; she climaxed quietly, too wrapped up in her own feelings for outward expression. Her hands fell to his biceps and she squeezed hard enough to bruise.

“Yeah?” he said when she relaxed. She nodded, but she still gripped his fingers, her thighs still drumming with tension. “I think you can give me another one,” he said, and she moaned quietly.

He put his cock in her. For a few thrusts she clutched at the bedding, then she slid her hand between them to work herself. He could let go now. He buried his face in her shoulder and braced himself on either side of her. She felt so fucking good around him, beneath him. Their skin stuck together. He was so fucking close; his mind was going numb with it.

“Fuck, _Gin_ ,” he whimpered.

He shuddered through his orgasm. He felt like he was sinking, some dark emotion pulling him down. Tears surfaced behind his eyelids. 

He was so sorry. So fucking sorry. He’d never think of Malfoy again. There was no point. Nothing could ever be this perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

Once Al had made a full recovery, and Harry was free again to do whatever he pleased during half the week, he avoided his usual area and spent a couple of days Apparating to random parts of London. In Bromley he ate a hamburger and did his best to dodge all the shopping mums. In Shoreditch he came across a charming museum and wasted an afternoon exploring its gardens. In Pimlico he made the abrupt decision to jump on a riverboat and let it take him to wherever it was headed.

He considered blocking Malfoy’s owls from Grimmauld Place, but he told himself that he was being ridiculous and such an action was unneeded. When a note from Malfoy did arrive, Harry spent many minutes staring at it. The black owl was long gone, and Harry hovered by the open window, the misty air on his face. 

He should just burn it. He should chuck it in the bin and forget all about Malfoy. It wasn’t like the man would show up at his house if he didn’t get a response. But first Harry had to read it. There was a slight chance Malfoy was contacting him about Al’s health.

 _See a film with me. Monday. Same time and place._ Again the note didn’t have a signature. Harry placed a hand on his stomach, afraid his tea would come up.

Malfoy knew exactly what he was doing. Harry crushed the note in his fist. The bastard.

Of course Harry had to accept now. A pureblood wizard wanted to see a _film_ with him. God, would Malfoy get popcorn? Would he wonder how Muggles projected the images? Did he see films so often that all of it now seemed normal to him? If so, did he go alone or did he take friends with him? Harry tried to visualize Pansy Parkinson and Greg Goyle sitting with him in the cinema and his thoughts stalled.

He threw himself into housework and playing with his kids that weekend. On Saturday he got up early to scrub the kitchen floor and cupboards, then the fireplace and all the bookcases in the living room. When James asked him for a Quidditch lesson, he was so covered in muck that it took three cleaning spells for his skin to clear. He devoted a good number of hours to telling James all that he needed to know about catching the Snitch and then watching in terror as James bolted through the air in pursuit of the fluttering ball. The next day, after spending the morning organizing the attic, he accepted an invitation to Lily’s tea party; he let her put bows in his hair and promised to call her “Madam” when she served him juice and biscuits. Two stuffed bears and a Wendella the Wise Witch doll joined him at her little floral table, and he discovered he was taking part in a political interrogation when Lily slammed her teacup down and demanded of Wendella: “Who else is a traitor? I want to know NOW!” 

When Monday arrived he laid in bed and thought about not going. His body ached from all his cleaning and he wanted to just melt into his sheets. He knew he shouldn’t go; he knew there was nothing innocent about whatever was happening between him and Malfoy; but the house was deserted when he finally got up and he was hit by a wave of intense loneliness. Ginny and his kids hadn’t even said goodbye. He decided then to see the film. He could handle himself around Malfoy, even if his stomach was already twisting from the possibility of seeing him again. 

He Apparated to Muggle London and found Malfoy leaning against the alley wall. He wore a grey peacoat and a wool scarf looped around his neck. His hair was damp as if he’d just come from a bath or had fallen victim to a quick drizzle; Harry glanced up at the sky and found it dull but cloudless. 

“Potter,” Malfoy said stiffly.

Harry stared and stared. He wanted to remain in the privacy of the alley and just _look_. Some unknown emotion flashed in Malfoy’s eyes, and Harry, taking it as a negative reaction, forced his gaze elsewhere.

“A film, eh?” Harry attempted a smile.

“I thought you’d enjoy it.”

“Oh.” Had Malfoy just admitted to something? This gave Harry a touch of confidence. “I didn’t know you concerned yourself with what I liked.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Don’t let it go to your head.” They took off for the street. Malfoy didn’t walk with his usual briskness, but he kept his head down. His hair caught what sunlight there was and a few strands glinted. The tips of his ears were pink from the cold.

“Does this mean you’re paying?” Harry asked.

Malfoy smiled a little. “If you want me to.” 

Harry leaned in. “I’m not a cheap date.” He’d meant it as a bit of mate banter, something he’d said loads of times to Ron, but Malfoy didn’t respond with a snarky _You wish, babes_. Instead he froze, and Harry swore he heard an intake of breath.

“The cinema is just up this way,” Malfoy said, his voice unsteady. “They play old films. You know, the ones in black and white.”

Harry nodded; he’d walked past that cinema a few times. When they arrived he looked up at the cracked marquee. “ _The Third Man_ ,” he read out loud. It sounded vaguely familiar.

“It’s the finest British film ever made,” Malfoy said.

“How the hell do you know that?”

Smirking, Malfoy pointed to the poster in the window. “That’s what it says.” He purchased their tickets and they went inside. The lobby smelled a bit like mildew. Popcorn and candy were on sale behind dusty glass.

Harry touched Malfoy’s arm. “Let’s find our seats.”

They ascended a grand staircase with gold-tinted banisters; a chandelier met them at the landing, its crystals yellowed by age. In the corridor all the ornate lamps had parts missing and the Edwardian wallpaper flaked from the walls. Ancient cobwebs gathered in the ceiling’s highest corners.

“Fancy,” he said.

Malfoy sneaked a glance at him. “Actually, it reminds me of Grimmauld Place.” At Harry’s confused look, he explained, “I saw it briefly as a child.”

“Makes sense.” He refused to think about Malfoy roaming his house as a spoiled little boy.

Their seats were old lumpy things. Harry watched Malfoy’s reaction, expecting him to scowl. But his face gave nothing away; he merely clasped his hands in his lap and looked around politely.

Surely Malfoy couldn’t be nervous?

The film started then; it was pretty good, but a zither shrieked throughout most of its scenes. Harry related to its depiction of a chaotic postwar world and he liked how the characters weaved through menacing shadows. At one point he glanced down and was struck by how strange Malfoy’s expertly-polished Oxfords looked next to his dirty trainers. 

Malfoy was watching him; grey shapes flickered on his face, masking his expression. “You have something in your hair.” He gently brushed at his fringe, his fingers grazing Harry’s skin.

“Thanks.” Harry turned back to the screen, trying to hide how much he liked Malfoy’s touch.

When the film finished and the lights came back on, they remained in their seats even though Malfoy seemed determined not to look at Harry. 

“Do you go to the cinema often?” Harry asked.

“Not really.”

“Right.” He was becoming quite familiar with Malfoy’s profile. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your son.” 

Malfoy looked at him sharply, and Harry was pleased. “Whatever for?”

Harry shrugged. “I spoke to him the night I Floo’ed the Manor. I just wanted to say that he seems like a good kid.”

Malfoy visibly relaxed. “He is a good kid. Does that surprise you?”

“Yes. He looks so much like you . . . I guess I just assumed he’d act like you did at that age. He’s definitely not a pushover; he seemed to not want to wake you when I asked for you.”

Malfoy shook his head. “He shouldn’t have even been out of bed. He likes to sneak down to the kitchens in the middle of the night. The elves adore him of course.” Malfoy hesitated. “He resents my patients, I think. St Mungo’s and house calls frequently take me away from the Manor.”

“In addition to your lunches with me,” Harry added.

Malfoy seemed a bit ashamed. “Yes.”

The cinema was still quite dim and his trainers kept sticking to spills on the floor. Harry felt like taking a gamble. “Do you think you’re a good father?”

Malfoy stood. “We should leave before the Muggles kick us out.”

Harry wanted to protest, but Malfoy was already heading up the aisle. He thought about remaining in his seat, because, frankly, he was getting annoyed at Malfoy just walking away from him. What were they really doing here? Malfoy was obviously not enjoying himself. 

Following Malfoy’s rigid back out of the cinema, Harry had all intention of interrogating him once on the street; but when Malfoy paused for him by the kerb, his face all nerves, Harry redoubled his efforts to be patient.

“So.” Harry did his best to give Malfoy some space.

Malfoy chewed at his mouth, his eyes bright and wavering as he thought hard about something. He seemed desperate to pace, to fidget, like it took everything in him to remain still. He looked at Harry then, and his expression was fierce.

“My friend has a flat he mostly doesn’t use,” he said quietly. “We could go there to have our tea.” 

“You don’t have to go back to work?”

“I took the rest of the day off,” Malfoy said, glancing away again.

“Where’s this flat?”

“It’s close enough.” Malfoy stepped into Harry’s space. “We could side-along to save some time.”

Malfoy was taller than him, and Harry had to tilt his head back a fraction to meet his gaze. Again that weird thing was happening between them. Malfoy’s eyes were eating him up, his body vibrating with tension, and Harry let it happen. He encouraged it. He leaned toward Malfoy, and he was dying for them to touch. Just a brush of hands, a quick dusting of a shoulder, anything. None of that would cross boundaries.

“Okay,” Harry said.

They found the closest alley to Apparate. Breathing in deeply, Malfoy placed a hand on Harry’s hip, his fingertips just barely meeting his backside, and grabbed his shoulder with the other hand. They spun and disappeared with a pop.

They arrived in another alley that was considerably cleaner. Malfoy led them into a smart building with glinting black windows. The building’s lobby had a front desk that was thankfully unattended; beneath their feet was marble tile.

“Who can afford a flat in a place like this and _not even live in it_?” Harry said.

“Blaise Zabini,” Malfoy answered.

“That explains a lot,” Harry said. They stepped into a Muggle lift and traveled up many levels.

The corridor was just as posh as the lobby and Harry was relieved when Malfoy let them into the dark flat. Malfoy turned on the lights with a swish of his wand.

“Do you come here often?” Harry asked.

“Sometimes,” Malfoy said with a shrug. He helped Harry take off his jacket and hung it by the door. Removing his own outerwear, Malfoy motioned to the white sofa. “We can spend some time out here or go into the kitchen.”

“I want my tea,” Harry said.

“Good, me too,” Malfoy said, and his voice was rough. They moved through the living room to the small, but high-end kitchen. All the appliances were expensive and magical. The spot lighting was charmed to mimic the flames of a crackling fire; shadows danced at their feet, along their bodies, until Malfoy swished his wand again and standard electric light ended the show.

“How often does Zabini use this place?” Harry asked.

“A few times a year. He inherited all his mum’s galleons and this flat was one of his pet projects.” Malfoy frowned at the large postmodern painting on the wall. “I can’t say that I appreciate all his décor choices.”

Harry leaned against the counter. “Understandable. You seem more like a . . . classicist when it comes to paintings and stuff.” He hoped “classicist” was a word because he was pants at talking about art.

Malfoy joined him at the counter. He snorted. “What do you know about it?” He kicked at Harry’s trainer with the toe of his Oxford and left their feet touching. “I’ve never known you to be sophisticated.”

Harry scoffed, and tried to recall examples of his sophistication. All he could focus on was Malfoy’s proximity. “I can be sophisticated . . . I think. I go to Ministry Galas.”

“I stand corrected.” Malfoy gave him a slow, flirtatious smile, which made Harry blink: He’d never seen such an expression on Malfoy’s features. Malfoy grasped his wrist and dragged a finger along a scar there. “How did you get this?”

“I dunno,” he managed. “Probably on the job.”

“I could get you a potion to remove it if you want.” His hand roamed up Harry’s arm, feeling for more scars. “I could remove most of these.”

Harry was trembling; he felt hot in the face; he couldn’t take his eyes off Malfoy’s pretty hand on his arm. They stood so close to each other; Harry could smell Malfoy’s cologne and feel the heat of his body.

Malfoy turned fully to him. He touched Harry’s cheek lightly, then watched for his reaction. Harry remained still, his heart thumping. He refused to think; he was desperate to know what Malfoy would do next.

Malfoy framed Harry’s face with both hands, still watching, still waiting for something. He kissed Harry.

Harry fisted the front of his shirt. The kiss was strange but good. Malfoy’s lips were thin and a bit dry. He opened his mouth to Harry and their tongues brushed.

 _This can’t be happening_ , Harry thought. He pulled away. Malfoy reached for him but Harry evaded his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy panted. 

Harry was panicking. “I—I can’t do this. I have to tell Ginny.”

Malfoy gripped him by the arms. “You will do no such thing. Listen to me: What just happened doesn’t matter. I kissed you. That’s all.”

“But it does matter!” Harry clawed at Malfoy’s hands. “She deserves to know. She doesn’t deserve to be with someone who—”

Malfoy wrenched Harry’s arm behind his back and shoved him face first onto the counter. The end of his wand dug into Harry’s cheek. “You will _not_ ruin this.” He dragged his wand along Harry’s mouth and pressed his groin into Harry’s arse. “Now, are you going to behave for me?”

 _Holy shite_. Malfoy was hard.

Harry panted against the counter. This was bad, very bad, but his thoughts were drowned out by the loud ringing in his head.

Malfoy dropped his wand and leaned down to nose along Harry’s jaw. He lifted Harry up a bit to sneak a hand down his front and cup him through his jeans. “I want you to come against my hand.” 

“Yes,” Harry whined, and he imagined Ginny watching all this unfold with her feet propped up on the kitchen table. She was ten years younger, and wore her pro-Quidditch uniform with the mud-stained trousers and elbow guards. Her eyes were dark and hungry.

Malfoy unbuttoned Harry’s jeans and tugged them down with his pants. He tightened his hold on Harry’s arm. “Spread your legs.” He muttered a spell and suddenly Harry was gripped by a well-lubed hand. “Just imagine it’s a wet cunt,” he murmured in Harry’s ear.

Groaning, Harry alternated between pressing against Malfoy’s cock and fucking his hand. The friction wasn’t enough. “Take off your fucking trousers. I want to feel you.”

“No,” Malfoy said with a smirk in his voice. He tightened his hand and slowly stroked Harry’s cock.

“Fuck.” Harry dropped his head to the counter and gave up trying to grind against Malfoy. His arm was going numb against his back, but he didn’t care. Malfoy sped up and his stroking made slick, obscene noises.

“You gonna come for me?” Malfoy asked almost tenderly, and Harry swore there was a silent “love” at the end of the question. _You gonna come for me, love?_

Delirious, Harry mouthed the counter, imagining that Ginny was now fucking his face, her hands tugging hard at his hair. _Naughty boys don’t get to breathe_ , she’d say. 

Malfoy released Harry’s arm to drag a palm down his back, along his side. He pulled Harry’s head back with a fistful of hair, and Harry came. 

Images flashed through his mind: Ginny’s face during orgasm, Malfoy’s lips curling into a smirk. Malfoy’s cock twitching as he stroked himself with those delicate fingers, thinking of Harry as he did so, whispering Harry’s name as if sharing a secret with himself. 

“—the best.” Harry realized that Malfoy was talking him through his climax, but the white noise in his head had blocked out most of his words. 

Harry slumped on the counter, gasping. Malfoy caressed his back as if to calm him. Harry expected a wave of hysteria to hit him, but his senses were too dulled, and all he wanted to do was get Malfoy back just as good. He nudged Malfoy off his back and twisted around to get his hand down Malfoy’s trousers.

Malfoy held him off. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Harry asked. 

Malfoy’s face was very flushed and his eyes glittered. A strange smile pulled at his mouth—mean, gleeful, almost maniac. “Like my hand around your cock, do you?”

Suddenly Harry understood. He tried to step back but collided with the counter. “Fuck you.”

“Actually it seems you prefer—”

Harry pushed him out of the way, no patience to hear his stupid comeback. He went to the toilet to wash his prick off. He splashed water on his face and white-knuckled the sink. It took everything in him not to put his fist through the mirror on the medicine cabinet. _What have I done?_

When he came out, Malfoy had made tea and waited for him at the table.

“Please hear me out,” Malfoy said, motioning to the other chair. 

Harry sat down and rubbed hard at his face. He reached for his tea.

“Things got out of hand,” Malfoy said. 

Harry glared into his cup. “Not for you.” He wondered if Malfoy was still a little hard. “I really don’t want to be a part of your weird power games.”

“It won’t happen again.” Malfoy sighed. “Potter, my wife’s dying.”

Harry gave him a startled look. “I didn’t know.”

“Not many do. She’s been ill for a long time but recently her condition has deteriorated.” Malfoy’s eyes shined. “For all my faults—for all my mistakes—please, don’t tell anyone what happened between us. I don’t think my wife could handle it if word got back to her.”

Harry sat back in his chair. “You disgust me.”

Malfoy’s expression darkened. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.” Harry sucked his teeth. “Your dying wife didn’t stop you from holding me down and jerking me off.”

Malfoy braced himself on the table and hissed: “And your wife didn’t stop you from coming all over my hand.”

“You loved it,” Harry snarled.

“Ridiculous,” Malfoy hissed back, leaning even more into Harry’s space. Harry smelled the milk on his breath.

Harry refused to back down. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” He drummed with adrenaline; it was like he’d just caught a suspect in a lie at the end of a long interrogation. “You’ve wanted me since that first time you ran into me. You were the one who brought me here. You were the one who kissed me.”

“So what!” Malfoy thundered. “None of it matters. We were talking about our wives.”

“Nice deflection,” he said, trying very hard not to think about Ginny.

Malfoy sat back in his chair. “Fine—you want to get honest? You just cheated on your wife.”

Harry flinched and did his best to level his voice before responding. “Yes.”

“Do you think she’s just going to accept that a man jerked you off?” His sneer deepened. “There’s a chance this could _ruin_ your marriage. Think of your children.”

Harry would consider everything when he was alone, but right now he had to keep calm or else Malfoy would win. “You are correct, but I believe you were asking for me not to tell anyone?”

Malfoy glared. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t lie to my wife.”

“How perfect,” Malfoy said, that nasty sneer twisting up his mouth. He looked so damn ugly. Harry was reminded of his feelings for Malfoy when they were at Hogwarts and he’d thought Malfoy a cruel, insufferable boy who resembled a smelly little ferret. 

They both stood. Harry’s hand went to his holster. Unbelievably, Malfoy didn’t reach for his own.

“What do you want me to say? What do I need to do for you to keep this a secret?” Malfoy said.

“I want you just to tell the truth!” Harry said.

Malfoy scoffed. “You want me to tell you what you want to hear.”

“No! Stop trying to manipulate everything!” Harry’s teeth chattered. “Why didn’t you let me touch you? Has this whole thing been about getting me bare-arsed and under your control?”

Malfoy sneered. “Partially.”

“So you just wanted to humiliate me. Like all those times at Hogwarts. But we aren’t kids anymore and now your method involves sex.”

Malfoy crossed his arms and looked away. A vein throbbed in his neck. Harry stepped into his space. How dare Malfoy not meet his eyes after Harry called him out on his shite? 

Harry poked him in the chest. “I want you to answer me.”

“I wasn’t aware that you’d asked a question.” Malfoy tried to turn away, but Harry grabbed him by the collar. Malfoy tore at his hand. “Unleash me!”

“No—not until I get a straight answer from you.”

Malfoy melted against him. “Oh, _Harry_ —the truth is that I can’t stop thinking about you. I want you. Gotta have you. I fantasize about staring deep into your froggy eyes and making sweet passionate love to you. Then I shed a little tear because you’d never leave that cunt—”

Harry backhanded him. Malfoy stumbled back and Harry pointed his wand at him. “You don’t talk about Ginny like that!”

Malfoy touched his cheek. “Maybe I misread you.” He sunk to his knees. “Lemme suck you off. I’ll let you choke me a bit while I do it.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to stumble back. “Will you ever stop fucking with me?”

“Never.” Malfoy smirked up at him.

“You’re psychotic,” Harry responded, then headed for the front door. He was halfway through the living room when Malfoy caught up to him.

“Potter—hold on a second.” Malfoy tried to grab his shoulder but Harry shoved him away. Malfoy rushed forward to block the door. 

“I swear to God, I will hex you within an inch of your life if you don’t get out of my way,” Harry said.

“No,” Malfoy said. “I still need to talk to you.” He was gasping.

“There’s nothing left to talk about!”

“Remember when I helped with your eye? I was following you. That wasn’t the first time either. I’d seen you in the area loads of times. And I never had the courage to talk to you.”

Harry recalled how Malfoy had never passed up an opportunity to taunt him during their years at Hogwarts. “Why would you need courage to talk to me?”

Malfoy was shaking. His face was red, and Harry didn’t know if he was blushing or just angry. “Everything I’ve said to you has been the truth.”

It took him a moment to figure out what Malfoy meant. “You mean that you really can’t stop thinking about me?” Harry paused, then asked softly, “Are you in love with me?”

Malfoy just stared at him. 

“Christ.” Harry rubbed a hand over his face. “For how long?”

Malfoy shuddered and hung his head. Hatred shadowed his face when he looked at Harry again. “You don’t get to know that.” Then he grabbed Harry behind the neck and kissed him deeply.

Malfoy’s mouth was warm and tasted of tea, and his lips trembled against Harry’s. Harry crowded him against the door, and took charge of the kiss, loving the way Malfoy clung to his back. 

Panting, Malfoy pressed his forehead to Harry’s. “Let me see you again.” 

Harry snorted. “Why? So you can fuck with me again?”

“No—next time will be different. I promise.”

Harry stepped away. “I have to think about it.”

“Of course,” Malfoy said, stepping back.

Harry didn’t trust himself to remain any longer. He left.

*

Harry was a ghost of himself in the aftermath of what happened in Zabini’s flat. He had no will to cook for his family or to keep up with the housework. He did everything in his power to avoid Ginny, but they were so close that he couldn’t escape her. At times he looked at her across the table or sofa, and thought: _Just tell her. Maybe she’d understand. Maybe she’d forgive you_. But then his gaze would land on his children and he’d be reminded of everything he could lose. Why would he risk all that because of something that happened with _Malfoy_?

He was fucking pathetic. He’d promised Ginny he’d never lie to her, and now he was evading her like a coward.

Harry stayed away from Malfoy, but that didn’t stop him from constantly thinking about the other man. He wanted to dominate Malfoy. He wanted to be the one to shove Malfoy to a counter and wank him. His stomach lurched any time he remembered Malfoy’s hand around his cock. He laid in bed at night and thought about trapping Malfoy beneath him. He wanted to sink his teeth into Malfoy’s neck, his sides. He wanted to twist his nipples until he _howled_. God! If only he could’ve touched Malfoy in that kitchen!

He ran through their conversation so many times he’d memorized it like a monologue. Malfoy couldn’t be in love with him; he’d only said those things to rile up Harry. How could his feelings run so deeply when they’d only been in contact for a month or two?

Of course Gin noticed his agitation, his remoteness, and she watched him worriedly. When an owl arrived from Hermione out of the blue, Harry knew that Gin had talked to her, and he was terrified: If there was one person he couldn’t keep a secret from it was Hermione. She asked him to go book hunting with her that day; he sent back a reply that said he wasn’t feeling up to it. Then he left the house before she could pop in to see how he was doing.

He returned to the British Library. He attempted to stay away from all the Muggle computers, but something told him his random headache was just a fluke. He remembered how Malfoy admitted to following him. Had Malfoy followed him into the library as well? The idea was creepy . . . but also a little hot. He shook his head. Why was he turned on by Malfoy’s fucked up actions? He’d never let Ginny hold him down and toss him off without asking for permission first.

Sinking deep into the library’s stacks, he found a semi-hidden chair in a far corner and plopped down to do some reading. It turned out that debates over Irish Home Rule weren’t as exciting as winning three consecutives Quidditch World Cups. That uni kid had definitely been like Hermione, despite the green hair and piercings.

The words swam in front of his eyes. After a while, he gave up reading, and instead slumped in the chair, lost in his own thoughts. When he finally left, he was shocked to find the sun low in the sky. His time in the library hadn’t felt that long; nevertheless, he reckoned it was now safe to return home since Hermione was probably focused on finishing up her work for the day and getting back to Ron and the kids.

At home he set about making his tea, determined to just crack on with his life, when a ringing came from his Floo. His stomach sank—it was probably Hermione asking why he hadn’t been around. For a moment he thought about not answering, but he couldn’t avoid her forever. He accepted the Floo and was startled to see the ugliest elf glowering at him.

“Harry J. Potter?” the elf said, sounding like he smoked a hundred cigarettes a day.

“Err . . . yes?”

“We got a package for you.”

Harry leaned closer and spotted the logo on the elf’s polo: E.P.S., which he knew stood for Elvish Postal Services.

“Who sent it?” he asked.

“We can’t disclose that. Do you accept the delivery or not?”

“Fine,” Harry said, and stepped back for the elf to push the parcel through.

“It’s protected, so I suggest you read the instructions carefully.” The Floo ended.

The instructions to open the package read: _I am intended for: HARRY J. POTTER. Please insert your wand below to verify your identity_. Harry was suspicious, and tried to remember all his encounters with harmful parcels on the job. The service seemed legitimate enough, but he whacked the package with some probing spells just to make sure. When his search for danger came up empty, he inserted the tip of his wand, and the brown paper wrapping dissolved to reveal a handsome gift box in red and silver stripes.

He lifted the top on the box. Cradled in soft metallic tissue paper was a very expensive leather photo album. The clasp looked like it was made out of real gold. Harry gaped. He carefully opened the album and found pages upon pages of magical photographs. The inscription on the first page was written in a careful, loopy cursive that he recognized as Malfoy’s penmanship: _The Complete Collection of the Order of the Phoenix, 1970-1998_.

Harry’s hand shook as he flipped through each page. How in the world had Malfoy managed this? He gazed into the faces of strangers and loved ones. Most, he knew, were long dead. When he came across Sirius’ photograph, he had to put the album aside, and he spent a long time with his head cradled in his hands, his breathing very shallow.

A while later, after he’d collected himself, he found in the box a small card from Malfoy that simply said: _Please_. 

Christ. Harry didn’t know if he’d ever hated someone more, and that included Bellatrix after she’d murdered his godfather.

He vanished the box and its card, and put the album delicately in a cupboard in his study. He went to the kitchen, determined to be productive, but the idea of cooking for five people made him want to stick his head in a white-hot cauldron. Instead he made tea and took a cup out with him to the garden, where he laid among chrysanthemums and their petals that resembled shards of glass.

Ginny found him there when she got home. “What are you doing out here?” Her voice was gentle, but Harry could tell that his moodiness was beginning to annoy her. This pissed him off.

“What does it look like?” It felt good to push her away.

Her expression hardened. “I’m only trying to help. Do you want me to take the kids for a hamburger? Leave you alone for a while?”

“No.” He got to his feet. “I should just make dinner.”

“That’s all right. You don’t have to cook for us.”

“It’s not all right, but you wouldn’t understand that.”

She frowned. “Why wouldn’t I understand?” 

His laugh was cruel. “Why? Because you never cook! You never clean! I’m the one—”

“Do you want to rethink that statement?” Her eyes were nearly black. 

“No I don’t!” He was yelling. “For months I’ve been cleaning up after this family! The washer still doesn’t like me! I get a mouthful of soap every time I have to clean your knickers! And that’s just the beginning of it! This garden—”

“Shut up,” she whispered.

“Don’t tell me to shut up! I get to talk now!” Relief flooded him. He knew he was being ridiculous but it felt so damn good to yell at her.

“No, you don’t.” Ginny inhaled swiftly. “I knew this would happen when you decided to play Mr Housekeeping.”

“All the hard work I’ve been doing, and you make a joke of it?”

Ginny threw her hands up. “What do you want me to do? Grovel at your feet and chant ‘thank you, thank you!’ for things you should’ve been doing all along?”

“What the hell do you mean!”

She scoffed. “Men are so fucking blind.” She stalked back to the house, and called over her shoulder: “I’m taking the kids out. Stay out here playing the victim, I don’t care.”

He swore and kicked the ground. She was the blind one! How dare she speak to him like that when he was so obviously having a hard time! 

He remained outside until he was sure they’d left, then he snatched up the whiskey bottle from the liquor cupboard and went to his study. He locked the door and pulled out that album again.

It was an amazing gift. Gazing into the faces of everyone who’d made it possible for him to defeat Voldemort touched him deeply. He was overcome by gratitude. He wanted to make sure that each and every member was always remembered. 

He fucking hated Malfoy for giving it to him. It was the epitome of Slytherin manipulation; he knew exactly what made Harry tick and he’d used such sensitive knowledge to get what he wanted. He knew the album would hit too close to Harry’s trauma to be ignored.

Harry took a long pull from the whiskey bottle. God, he wanted to hurt Malfoy. He wanted to wrap his hands around Malfoy’s long neck and _squeeze_. He wanted to drop to his knees and just fucking choke himself on Malfoy’s cock.

Every cell in his body urged him to seek out Malfoy; his argument with Gin gave him the perfect excuse to throw fidelity to the wind, to convince himself that it was her selfishness that drove him back to Zabini’s flat. But he knew that was bollocks even as he still vibrated with anger. The truth was that he wanted Malfoy. He wanted him so damn much, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He wished he’d never taken his sabbatical; he wished he’d never had time to have lunch with Malfoy, to see a bloody film with him, to spend hours flirting with him. He wouldn’t be in this position if he hadn’t been a stupid prat about James going to Hogwarts.

He just needed an outlet for his lust. He thought about wanking to that magazine again, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough this time. Maybe there were other products in George’s box that could help him? He staggered to his bedroom; he hadn’t eaten that much during the day, and the whiskey was already sinking its claws into him.

The contents of the box were just as he’d left them, but this time he bypassed the magazines to examine the potions. They looked like the standard love potions that George sold in his shops, like _Cupid Crystals_ and _Beguiling Bubbles_ , but were specifically meant to induce adult sexual fantasies. He turned his attention to the toys and found one that caught his fancy; it was in a handsome silver container with the words HURRAY FOR BUTT PLAY flashing in neon green across the front. He snorted and took up the potion again; he wasn’t sure if he was ready to stick a toy up his arse.

Pocketing the potion, he put the box back and grabbed his pillow and bedding to take with him to his study. He needed some space tonight, and the thought of sleeping next to Ginny after what he was about to do made his skin crawl. 

He locked the door again (then added a silencing spell just to be safe) and made himself a passable bed by charming his blanket and sheets to be so fluffy they almost floated. Reclining on the bed, he swallowed the potion and thought he’d find himself on top of a writhing Malfoy; instead Malfoy cradled him and pressed his soft mouth to his neck. He was so warm and his hands were so steady. They roamed over his chest and down to his thighs; they massaged his groin but only briefly before drifting back up.

“God,” Harry said, sinking into Malfoy’s chest.

Malfoy kissed his temple. “You’re so beautiful, Harry.”

He twisted around to kiss Malfoy. His breath was warm and he tasted familiar. Harry drew his hands over his broad shoulders and down his front; his nipples were damn near translucent. He bit and sucked them, and Malfoy shuddered. He reached down to spread Malfoy open, but Malfoy stilled his hands.

“Let me take care of you,” Malfoy said, and kissed him. Harry moaned deeply. Malfoy laid him down on a soft bed. “I know what you need. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” His voice was eager.

Malfoy mouthed down his stomach, lingering here and there to breathe him in, and then he was moving lower. Harry buzzed with arousal; he thought he felt Malfoy’s mouth somewhere, but the sensation was vague. His cock throbbed, Malfoy’s head was bobbing, but—Harry couldn’t follow what was happening. He inched closer to orgasm, but he could tell that he was being artificially stimulated by the potion ingredients. His stomach rolled; he thrashed, desperate to leave the fantasy.

He found himself on the ground, panting. He still felt Malfoy’s soft mouth on him; he still smelled Malfoy’s hair. He cried out in frustration. He punched the floor one, two, three times, and reveled in the pain that shot up his arm. 

Before he could think about it, he stumbled to his desk and wrote out a quick note: _Meet me tomorrow at the flat_. Then he stuck his wand out the window and signaled for a delivery owl. It took a moment or two, but a large speckled owl landed on his window sill. Harry tied the note along with the delivery fee to the owl, then watched as the bird disappeared into the night. He sat down heavily in his chair. He drank deeply from the whiskey bottle.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry spent the following morning locked in his study. His head spun from the whiskey; he kneaded his temples and shielded himself from the window’s grey light. Gin knocked on the door when she first woke up but he didn’t answer. A while later she sent her Patronus: a large stallion came barreling in through the wall and he jumped back in fright. 

“I want to give you space, but the children are worried. Please send a message downstairs so that we know you’re okay,” her voice said.

Ashamed, he raised his wand to do just that but then hesitated. What if his affair with Malfoy had altered his Patronus? He knew he had the ability to mask its true shape, but it’d been a long time since he last attempted that spell. He concentrated very hard on casting a corporal Patronus that resembled a stag; he studied the animal as it left the room, noting that it looked pretty much the same but a little gloomy.

His kids pounded on his door a few minutes later.

“Daddy! Come out!” Lily demanded.

“Yeah, stop being a prat,” James said, and he snickered with Al.

Harry rubbed hard at his face. He opened the door and mustered a smile. “Language,” he said, but his voice was light.

“What’s the matter with you?” Al squinted at him; Harry got the impression that he was being impersonated. 

“Nothing I want to talk to you lot about,” he said. “Sometimes you need just give people their space.”

“What can I do to help?” James asked earnestly. 

Harry smiled at him. “Nothing. Everything’s fine. I just need to be alone for a while.”

Three unconvinced faces stared at him. It was taking everything in him to keep smiling. He wanted to slam the door on them.

“Hurry up!” Ginny called at the bottom of the stairs. “Your gran’s waiting!”

“Listen to your mum,” Harry said.

His children eyed each other. They were obviously planning something. He made the mental note to hide anything important in his study before he left; it would be entirely in their character to break in to see what he was doing.

They said goodbye; Lily clutched at him and sniffled into his collar.

“I have every intention of cracking on,” he said, petting her hair. He didn’t know if he was traumatizing his children or teaching them an important lesson about emotions and boundaries. Probably a bit of both.

When they’d gone, he put the album and the empty potion bottle into his cupboard, then locked its door with the strongest (but harmless) protection spell he knew. They didn’t know much about magic yet, but he’d been able to accomplish miracles when he was around their age, and this had taught him to never underestimate children.

He went to search for a hangover potion. When his head had stopped spinning, he showered and tried his best to ignore the excited flutter in his stomach. He spent some time in the mirror attempting to _do something_ with his hair but then felt ridiculous and incredibly guilty. He was fucking preening before going to cheat on his wife.

The walls of Grimmauld Place started to close in on him, and he left before he could change his mind. Where the hell was this flat? He thought he’d remembered, but he Apparated to one alley, then to another, before realizing that it could possibly take him all day to find the damn place.

After a good thirty minutes of searching, he finally landed in the right location. He sat down heavily on the kerb, exhausted. He supposed it was fate telling him he shouldn’t be there. The day was cold, but he was sweating from all the Apparating, and sitting in the weak sunlight made his face hot even though his fingers were chilled.

He checked his watch and was irritated to find that he’d arrived around their usual time to meet. He’d wanted his arrival to surprise Malfoy. The image of Malfoy pacing that posh flat gave him confidence.

 _It’s now or never_ , he thought with a sigh. He entered the building and once again found the front desk empty. He passed some residents on his way to the lift and avoided their eyes. 

Once he reached the flat, he tried the knob on the front door and found it unlocked. Inside Malfoy was hastily combing his hair at the wall mirror; he twisted around when he noticed Harry. A bit of his hair stuck up in the back.

They stared at one another. Malfoy jerked forward but then stopped. There was a tremor to his shoulders so slight that Harry had to look closely to catch it.

The air crackled between them. He’d forgotten new romance could be like this; there’d been this sort of intensity when he first got with Gin, but this time was different. He wasn’t a child anymore. He was a grown man who knew exactly what he wanted.

“It took me forever to find this place,” Harry said, all confidence.

Malfoy’s chest was beating up and down; his legs seemed glued to the floor. “I’ve brought takeaway. I thought maybe you’d be hungry.” His voice quivered at the end of his sentences.

“What civility!” Harry imitated.

Frowning, Malfoy said, “I assumed you liked Indian. It’s Chicken Korma. Ever had it?”

“I’m not sure.” They were speaking across the room at each other. Harry thought Malfoy might throw himself out the window if Harry tried to come closer. Instead he hung up his jacket and calmly sat on Zabini’s snooty sofa.

Malfoy crept closer. “No—let’s eat at the kitchen table. I don’t trust myself on the sofa just yet.”

“What if I’m not hungry?” Harry asked just to be a sod.

“You will be.” Malfoy went into the kitchen.

Harry shivered and followed. At the table Malfoy was fiddling with the takeaway containers; his hands were shaking too much to open their Styrofoam lids. When Harry neared, he dropped the containers and moved to the other side of the table to sit down. Harry served them.

“Did you like the gift?” Malfoy swirled his chicken and rice on his plate.

“I hated it.”

“What? Why?”

Harry gripped the table and tried to find the words. “It was obvious manipulation.”

“Oh.” Malfoy glared down at his plate. “Of course it was. I wanted to see you again. That doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate the gift.”

“How did you even do it? So many dead members were forgotten after the first war . . . It was probably a pain in the arse to track down everyone after forty years.”

“It was.”

“Why did you do it?” Harry asked.

“Let’s drop it,” Malfoy said, and took an annoyed bite of his food.

“Drop it! You’re the one who brought it up! Why send me the damn thing if you didn’t want to talk about it?”

“I sent it because I knew you’d like it!”

“That wasn’t the only reason,” Harry said.

“Fine. Destroy it. I don’t care.”

Harry raised his eyebrow. “All that hard work and you don’t care if it goes up in flames? Unless you stole it from somewhere.”

“Damn it!” Malfoy put his hands over his face. “You want so much from me.”

“What?” He was very uncomfortable. “You’re barmy.”

“You just take, and take, and _take_.” 

“No I don’t!” Harry was outraged; he’d never asked anything from Malfoy.

“Then stop questioning me,” Malfoy snapped.

Harry stood. He was jeopardizing his marriage for _this_? The man was a lunatic. “I’m leaving. I can’t do this.”

Across the room a teacup shattered on the counter. They both stared at it in horror. 

“What the fuck, Malfoy?”

Malfoy took a deep, loud breath. “Please. I don’t want you to go.”

“You can’t have it both ways! You can’t expect me to stay when you insist on dictating everything I do or ask.”

Malfoy was trembling again. “You are right. Please, come back to the table and finish your lunch.”

“Are you gonna be honest about where you got that album?”

Malfoy spent some time cleaning up the teacup shards with his wand. “Yes,” he said.

Harry sat back down. He watched Malfoy, expecting him to speak right away. When he realized that wasn’t going to happen, he turned his attention to the food. The chicken had gone a little cold but the onions and tomatoes were good. The sauce was spicy and creamy, and had a nice combination of curry and pepper.

“I started on the album a few years after the war,” Malfoy said finally. “I . . . it wasn’t a good time for me and I needed something to keep me occupied. I was putting in long hours at St Mungo’s but it wasn’t enough.”

“Yeah . . . but why work on something about the Order?”

Malfoy glared. “Are you really that stupid or are you just forcing me to say it?”

“I want you to say it.”

Malfoy pulled at his hair. He spoke to the table: “There were days I couldn’t even get out of bed. I’d just think about what had gone on in my own home, what I’d let happen. I’d see Greyback in the corridors of Hogwarts, Dumbledore’s deathly face.” He took a shuddering breath. “To this day I stand in front of the mirror and think, ‘You repulsive _fool_.’”

Harry didn’t know what to do; he was dying to touch Malfoy, to comfort him, but he knew that Malfoy would spook.

“Things are better now,” Harry said. “You have a son you adore. Your profession allows you to help people every day.” He paused, not sure how far he should take it. “You are strong, and clever, and utterly gorgeous.”

Malfoy grinned sadly. “Gorgeous, eh?”

“Definitely.” Harry came around the table to sit next to Malfoy. “I bet your son adores you too.”

Malfoy touched his forehead to Harry’s shoulder. “I love him so much. I’d do anything for him.”

“I feel the same way about my kids,” he said.

“But—I’m afraid. I’m afraid of poisoning him. He’s so pure and I’m so damaged. Sometimes he’s mean, I suppose like every normal boy, but I don’t know how far it will go. I’m afraid he sees how much hate is in me and thinks it’s the right way to be.”

God, Harry was in love with Malfoy. No, no, that wasn’t it. He just wanted to take away his pain. He had his own ghosts, his own nightmares, but he was strong and willing to carry more. He didn’t want Malfoy to hurt anymore.

He touched Malfoy’s soft cheek, then felt the grit on his shaven jaw. He ran his thumb along Malfoy’s pointed nose, over his cruel eyebrows. Tiny blue veins crossed his eyelids. His temples were a bit oily. Malfoy opened his eyes, and Harry flinched: he still found Malfoy’s gaze calculating and cold; he was still reminded of their Hogwarts years when Malfoy dissected him, laughed at him, hated him.

“Please,” Malfoy said. “I want you.”

“Oh, yeah? Why?”

Malfoy kissed his cheek. “I could ask you the same thing. What makes me _gorgeous_?”

Harry took two of Malfoy’s fingers into his mouth. He tasted dirt and curry. He moved his mouth back and forth, a little embarrassed. He bit down on Malfoy’s knuckles; he liked that he felt bone under his teeth.

Malfoy gasped. He removed his fingers and kissed Harry. They kissed and kissed. Malfoy tasted like their lunch; his mouth was wet, urgent, warm. Harry’s cock was already throbbing.

Malfoy pulled back a little; he nibbled at Harry’s lip. He angled his wand at Harry and said hotly into his mouth: “We should wash our mouths before we go any further. These spices would make everything burn.”

 _I’m already burning_ , Harry thought dramatically. There was no question where Al got his antics.

Once their mouths were clean, Harry leaned over to kiss Malfoy deeply. Their tongues ran together; Harry tasted his dried lips, his uneven lower teeth. He wanted to devour Malfoy.

Malfoy stopped him. He took Harry’s hand and walked them to the white sofa in the living room. He pushed Harry to his back and crawled on top of him. He palmed Harry’s erection through his jeans.

“I want to suck you off,” Malfoy murmured. Harry tried to pull Malfoy’s shirt from his trousers, but Malfoy grabbed his hands.

“Why won’t you let me touch you?”

Malfoy’s nose was in his hair, and it was one of those strange moments when Harry knew what a person was thinking without seeing their face or reading any change in their body. Malfoy was debating if he should tell the truth.

“Because it’d make you attainable, and I couldn’t handle that,” Malfoy said.

Harry laughed. “You’re mad.”

“Perhaps.” Malfoy seemed content to just drag his hand over Harry’s chest and stomach; he captured Harry’s earlobe between his teeth and sucked.

“Oi! You’ll get saliva in my ear,” Harry said, knowing that saliva wasn’t the real issue. Sucking on earlobes was just so _intimate_ , and it was startling that Malfoy wanted to do it to him. 

Malfoy stuck his tongue in Harry’s ear and laughed when he jerked away.

“Always fucking with me,” Harry grumbled.

“Always,” Malfoy said, smiling against his neck. 

“You’re such a tosser.”

“Hmm, just you wait,” Malfoy said.

Well, Harry had to admit he walked into that one. “You can get on with it, you know.”

“And give up a perfect opportunity to torture you? I think not.”

“Torture me? What is this—you got a sex dungeon or something?”

“Not sure. I wouldn’t put it past Blaise, though.”

“We’ll look for it if things get a bit stale, eh?” Harry said, which caused Malfoy to laugh more. He urged Malfoy up so he could see his face. His eyes danced and his mouth had softened into a smile. His teeth were wet from a bit of spit. Harry kissed him.

Malfoy made a surprised noise, almost like a hiccup. He parted his lips and angled his head, wanting more. His mouth was warm and compliant, and Harry wished their positions were reversed so that he could wrap his hands around Malfoy’s neck and tongue-fuck him so deeply he choked. Instead he bit down on Malfoy’s bottom lip and didn’t let up until Malfoy moaned.

“Fuck,” Malfoy whispered. He broke the kiss to gaze at Harry through heavy lids. Color streaked his face and neck. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, because what else was there to say? He could get used to seeing Malfoy like this. Harry bet he could do a lot of things to Malfoy with his defenses down, if only Malfoy would allow it. He yanked open Malfoy’s belt and was clawing at the button on his trousers before Malfoy grabbed his hand.

“Please don’t,” Malfoy murmured. 

“You can’t stop me.” Harry went for his trousers again, but found himself trapped with his hands pinned above his head.

Malfoy smirked down at him. “You were saying?”

“You are such a child. Let me up,” Harry said, struggling.

Malfoy whispered into his ear: “I think somebody needs to be tied down.”

“Don’t you dare!” 

Panicked, he bucked up, but Malfoy tightened his hold and clicked his tongue.

“Relax, I wouldn’t _dream_ of doing anything you didn’t want.”

Harry scoffed. “I don’t believe that for a second. Let me up, damn you.”

Malfoy sunk a leg between Harry’s thighs and _pressed_. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed. Malfoy could surely feel his erection against his thigh, which would’ve embarrassed Harry if it didn’t feel so bloody good. Malfoy pressed harder. 

“Fuck,” Harry stuttered. He tried to grind down on Malfoy, but there was no space for that; he shifted and Malfoy’s hard prick brushed against his hip. They both knew Harry had felt it and Malfoy raised himself so that their groins could no longer touch. “So that’s how it’s gonna be?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, strained. He released Harry’s wrists to push his shirt up and unbutton his jeans. He kissed Harry’s stomach, dragging his tongue through the hair there.

Harry carded his fingers through Malfoy’s fringe and smoothed his thumbs over his cheekbones. Malfoy looked up at him, his eyes so very dark. 

“Don’t,” he said, his voice a croak. 

_Why not?_ Harry wanted to reply. Instead he fisted Malfoy’s hair and shoved his face toward his prick. “No more games. I want your mouth on me.”

“We’ll see,” Malfoy said with a snort. He went back to lapping at Harry’s stomach, his mouth following the trail of hair that led past his jeans. His tongue slipped below Harry’s waistband; Harry groaned.

“So this is what you meant—” Harry faltered as Malfoy’s tongue dipped even lower.

“When I said torture?” Malfoy said against his skin. “Yes.” Malfoy parted his jeans slightly and folded Harry’s pants back just enough to expose the beginning of his pubic hair. Then his mouth was there too, his breath so very moist.

“Malfoy!” Harry was annoyed and impatient; his cock strained against his pants and if he nudged up just so maybe he could touch Malfoy’s chin. His face was burning, and he was tired—so fucking tired—of Malfoy playing with him. “I swear to—I’m leaving if you don’t stop it!”

Malfoy blinked up at him innocently. “Stop what?” He sat up entirely. “Do you not want to do this?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Harry sputtered. “Of course I want to do this! I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t!”

Malfoy’s grin was so fucking smug. He ran his fingers over Harry’s covered erection. “Tell me—tell me what you want.”

“I want you to stop being a psychotic twat and just touch me already!”

“How?” Malfoy rested his hand on Harry’s cock, unmoving. “Like this?”

Harry grunted, trying to thrust up, but Malfoy’s other hand pinned his hips down. “Enough!” he yelled, and shoved Malfoy away. He was almost to his feet when Malfoy shoved him back down; he thought wildly of his wand; Malfoy yanked his pants down and sunk his mouth on Harry’s cock.

“Oh, God,” Harry said, his eyes rolling back. He couldn’t fucking move; he felt so powerless; Malfoy was going to milk him dry. “Please—”

Malfoy whimpered and tried to take him deeper, but he gagged and came up to cough. Without glancing up, he pulled Harry’s jeans and pants down almost to his knees. Harry sighed; his balls had felt crushed. Malfoy sat back a little to stare at him, his chest heaving.

Harry tried to cover himself up with a hand.

“Don’t fucking move,” Malfoy said.

“So we’re back to—” 

Malfoy kissed him, and his tenderness surprised Harry. “Please—stop talking.” Malfoy kissed his chin, then his cheek. He nipped at Harry’s nose. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered so quietly that Harry thought he’d imagined it.

How in the world was this man capable of such tenderness? Malfoy was the same person who’d sneered at him for years, who’d stomped on his face, who’d cackled with glee any time Harry’d been hurt or embarrassed. He should want to beat Harry to a pulp, not caress him as if his fingers ached for it. Could people change _that_ much? 

“Let me see you.” Harry was panting, desperate, his chest hurting from emotion.

Malfoy’s smile was fierce. “Only if you beg.”

Harry considered it for a moment. He licked his lips. “Show me your cock.”

Laughing breathlessly, Malfoy said, “You need to do better than that!”

“Damn you!” He had to admit that Malfoy’s control impressed him, even if it was the most annoying thing in the world. “What will be enough? Please, _Draco_! I’ve been thinking about your cock for weeks. Wondering what it’d be like in my hand; what it would feel like in my mouth. I want to _choke_ myself on it!”

“Better,” Malfoy whispered, his face now entirely red.

“Please—I want it,” Harry whispered back.

“I’m going to give it you.” Malfoy’s fingers went to his belt, then unclasped his trousers. Harry couldn’t look away. He was finally going to see Malfoy’s cock; it was going to be so fucking close to his face.

Malfoy raised his shirt and withdrew his cock from his trousers. It was very pink. He watched as the pink darkened with each stroke of Malfoy’s hand. Strangely, his attention was drawn elsewhere: he stared at Malfoy’s navel, his belly trembling with each breath, his skin pale and soft-looking. He glanced at his blond pubic hair and thought he spied a sprinkling of freckles on his hipbone. There was something very delicate about Malfoy’s naked body. His skin was so white it was almost blue, and Harry imagined how easy it would burn underneath a weak afternoon sun.

“What do you want me to do with this cock?” Malfoy said harshly.

“Lemme taste you,” he said, a little delirious. He also wanted to touch Malfoy’s delicate belly.

“No.” Malfoy swiped his thumb over his cock’s head. “You only get to watch.” He made a show of licking his thumb clean.

Harry moaned. He wanted to see Malfoy taste himself again. He wanted to demand it.

Malfoy’s stroking sped up; his breathing became pants. Harry couldn’t get over how nice his fingers looked around his shaft. His movements faltered; his cock was dripping. Harry knew he was close.

“You want this?” Malfoy sounded so dirty. “You want me to coat your whole fucking face?”

Harry was too far gone to answer. He was so aroused he felt like he was floating. _Anything, anything_ , he thought.

Malfoy bit down on his lip, quieting a cry. His come spilled down his hand and on Harry’s stomach. A few drops landed on Harry’s face. 

Breathing hard, Malfoy licked Harry’s face and stomach clean. He smoothed down his own shirt and buttoned up his trousers again; he moved to the floor to kneel at Harry’s groin.

“I bet you’re just desperate to come.” He caressed Harry’s balls, then lightly ran his finger up his cock. “I bet you want my mouth on you, hot and fast. I bet you want to hold me down and fuck my face as hard as you can.”

“Stop,” Harry whined.

“I hate to disappoint, but you still have some work to do.”

Harry blinked slowly. “Like what?”

“You’ll have to be patient as I slowly bring you to the edge, again and again.”

Harry managed to raise an eyebrow. “That’s a big promise. Are you sure your mouth is up to it?”

Malfoy smirked, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen him look more evil. He looked like he wanted to fucking _destroy_ Harry. 

“I guess you’ll just have to find out,” Malfoy said. He rolled up his sleeves, all business-like. Harry snorted. Two could play this game. 

Malfoy surprised Harry by nuzzling his palm. He kissed and bit his wrist, which made Harry gasp. He had no idea his wrists were so sensitive. Malfoy gnawed and licked his wrist some more, grinning against his skin as Harry squirmed, then kissed his way up Harry’s arm. He pushed Harry’s head to the side to gain access to his neck. He licked from Harry’s collarbone up to the back of his ear. Harry’s back arched.

“Fuck,” Harry said, buzzing. He’d forgotten necking could feel this good. 

Malfoy sucked at Harry’s throat, and laughed at how this made Harry squirm even more. 

“It tickles,” Harry said, trying to salvage some respect.

“Oh, _no_ ,” Malfoy said roughly. “We can’t have that.” He turned his attention to Harry’s chest. “Your fucking tits.” Malfoy lapped at his nipples, then bit down hard. Harry cried out. His tongue followed Harry’s chest hair to his belly, then lower. He nipped at Harry’s pelvis, then pressed his face to his pubic hair. He breathed him in.

“Now, look at this pretty cock.” Malfoy played with some of Harry’s pre-come and let it string off his finger. 

Harry glared up at the ceiling. No part of him was _pretty_. Malfoy was the pretty one, with his pale stomach, glossy hair, and legs that went on and on.

Muttering a lube spell, Malfoy began stroking him slowly, his foreskin moving with his hand. He leaned down to kiss up Harry’s shaft; then his tongue, wet and gentle, licked the head of his cock, over and over. Harry trembled. He wished he could remain completely impassive, but it was taking everything in him not to thrust into Malfoy’s hand. Then Malfoy was sinking his hot mouth around Harry, sucking as he went. Harry almost shouted. Malfoy pulled his mouth away. He sat back on his heels and just stared at Harry.

“My mouth is watering for your cock,” Malfoy whispered. His stroking slowed to a near stop and Harry’s prick jerked for more contact.

“Fuck.” Harry was _aching_ for more. He thought Malfoy would force him to beg again but he was wrong.

Malfoy murmured into his ear: “I shouldn’t be here. I’ve worked too hard to protect myself. But when I think about never seeing you again I want to not exist. Sometimes I think I’d rather be dead than continue feeling this way. Sometimes I think I’d rather be dead than live without you. But don’t believe any of this. I once kneeled at the feet of the Dark Lord. I can’t be trusted.”

He didn’t wait for Harry to respond. He swallowed Harry’s cock, rapidly bobbing his head, and Harry cried out when he felt himself breach his throat. Malfoy didn’t let up; he quickened his pace. He drooled and slurped, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever experienced a sex act so messy, so overwhelming.

Harry felt powerless; the sounds he was making were closer to cries than moans. He wondered vaguely if he ever made Ginny feel this unhinged, this exposed. He fucking hoped so. He tried to imagine letting her have this much control over him and his stomach fluttered in panic.

Fuck—Malfoy was forcing him to the brink. He’d been dying to come for a while, but now he felt unready. Malfoy’s muttering had made him confused, a bit panicked. Something bad was going to happen at any moment.

But then Malfoy moaned loudly and Harry was coming, he was coming so hard. Malfoy was doing his best to swallow it all down, his drool coating Harry’s cock. Everything went white. Harry was no longer in his body.

He sensed Malfoy moving away. A cleaning spell washed over him. He couldn’t open his eyes. He was exhausted.

Sometime later he came back to himself. He didn’t think he’d slept. No, he’d hovered on the edge of consciousness. If he thought hard enough, he could remember what he’d missed. Malfoy had gone. He was convinced of it. He was going to open his eyes with his cock still out and find himself alone in Blaise fucking Zabini’s flat. He probably would never see Malfoy again.

He opened his eyes. Malfoy was in the opposite chair with a teacup in his hand. He frowned at Harry.

“I thought you had left,” Harry said, and he focused through his haze to pull his pants and jeans up.

“No.”

“But you wanted to.” Harry sat up weakly.

“No.”

“Why did you say all that to me then?”

Malfoy shrugged. “I was caught up in the moment. I told you not to believe any of it.”

“But—” Harry didn’t know what he wanted to say. He rubbed at his temples.

“Come with me to King’s Cross. I need to catch my train there.”

“Your _train_? You can Apparate.”

Malfoy shrugged again. “I like taking the train home. It gives me time to clear my head.”

“And to nail down your lies?”

Glaring, he said, “Yes. You should try it sometime.”

Harry went cold. He stood and went to fetch his jacket. Malfoy drained his teacup. He leisurely moved to the door as well.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said. 

This made Harry stare. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to hearing Malfoy apologize.

“I don’t want to row right before saying goodbye.” Malfoy kissed him lightly on the cheek. 

“When are we going to meet again?” Harry asked.

“Let’s wait,” Malfoy said. “We need to be reasonable about this. We can’t let it go to our heads.”

Harry snorted. It was already too late for that. “In two weeks then?”

Gulping, Malfoy said, “I don’t know if I can wait that long.” He turned away to shoulder on his coat. “Do you mind playing it by ear? I’ll send you an owl.”

Harry shrugged. He’d been expecting this. “Fine.”

Malfoy pressed him to the wall. “Fuck, I want you again. I will always want you.” He kissed Harry desperately.

He let himself melt into the kiss, but he didn’t believe what Malfoy had said. He didn’t know why, but it seemed like Malfoy was committed to keeping him off-balance.

*

When he arrived home, his prick was still tingling and he swore there was some dried come on his eyebrow. He went into the kitchen and stopped dead. His three kids grinned at him from the table; Hermione and Ron stood next to them, each holding a treacle tart. A large banner fluttered above their heads: _Best Dad Ever!_

“We wanted to surprise you!” James said. “Uncle Ron helped us cook you dinner and Aunt Hermione got your favorite dessert!”

“You’ve been so sad, Daddy,” Lily said.

“Yeah, for once I wasn’t being the only moody prat,” Al said.

Hermione grinned nervously. “Ron and I heard you needed some cheering up. I hope you don’t mind.”

Harry touched his eyebrow. He’d hit himself with a handful of cleaning spells, but, Christ, what if he’d missed a spot? Not knowing what to do, he let James drag him to the chair at the head of the table. 

Lily hugged him and pressed a kiss to his neck. “I love you, Daddy. I don’t want you to be sad anymore.” Oh, God. She shouldn’t be anywhere near his filthy skin right now.

He was shaking. They’d made his favorite: Cornish Pasties. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t control himself. He began to cry. He was scum. He was absolute rubbish. He deserved to be taken out back and have his throat cut. He imagined himself bleeding out on the grass, gurgling as he swiftly neared the end, and he _yearned_ for it. 

He remained still, hoping that somehow they wouldn’t notice, but he glimpsed Al’s horrified expression, and he fucking lost it. Sobs racked his body; he didn’t even try to hide his face. He just sat there, shaking with tears, completely ashamed.

Al ran out of the room. James backed away, his brown eyes frightened. Lily burst into tears and flung herself on him.

“Don’t cry! No! No!” she wailed, yanking his shirt.

“Give him some space.” Hermione gently moved Lily away.

“Let’s go out to the garden. I have a few card tricks I want to show you,” Ron said, and he navigated James and Lily out of the kitchen.

Harry didn’t know what was happening. He could barely see. His head felt so heavy.

Hermione pushed a glass of whiskey into his hand. “Drink.” He swallowed it down in one large gulp. She took up the chair next to him and patiently waited for him to collect himself.

He took a deep breath. It was now time to tell the truth. He found he didn’t really care.

“We didn’t mean for all this to be such a shock,” she said. “The children just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“I know.” God, he sounded pathetic.

She hesitated. “What’s going on with you?”

He looked at her. It would be so easy just to say it. Four words. That’s all it would take. But—he felt dizzy. He didn’t have the strength to tell her now. He would tell her later when he’d calmed down. It was for the best, really. He’d cause everyone less harm if he admitted everything when he was more in control of himself. 

“I dunno,” he replied, avoiding her eyes. He stood. “I need a shower.”

She was scrutinizing him. “All right.”

He escaped to the living room and paused by the window to peer outside. Ron had all three of his children huddled around him; they were laughing as one of the cards in his hand spun and spit sparks. His children were going to be okay. Even Al looked like he’d recovered properly. 

He heard Hermione climbing the stairs from the kitchen and hurried off to have his shower. He needed to wash Malfoy off his skin and have time to just breathe and think.

In the shower he forced his mind to go blank. He knew he wouldn’t be able to put himself back together if he thought about his afternoon with Malfoy. It’d been disgraceful to cry in front of his children; they deserved to never see him like that again. No matter what happened, he must remain strong for them.

He was out of the shower and pulling on his jeans when an image of Malfoy drooling on his cock flashed through his mind. He clamped his hand over his eyes and pressed his forehead to the wall, the button on his jeans completely forgotten. Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_. He couldn’t think about any of that right now. There was no way he could think about Malfoy sucking him off and still face Ron and Hermione.

When he came down to the living room, they were waiting for him on the sofa. 

Hermione stood. “We sent the kids to the Burrow. We thought it’d be best if you had some time alone.”

“Yeah, we didn’t mean to . . . alarm you or anything,” Ron said awkwardly.

Harry tried hard not to glare. They should have asked him before sending his kids off to Molly. He went to sit beside Ron but then changed his mind. There was too much tension in him to remain still and he wanted to be able to bolt as quickly as possible if need be. 

Ron and Hermione watched him worriedly.

“Harry—is there anything you want to tell us?” Hermione asked.

He glanced at their faces, trying to figure out if they knew anything. They seemed more concerned than hostile. Maybe he could still make it out of this conversation with his life intact.

He took a deep breath. “I dunno really. I haven’t been myself lately.”

“Yes—but what’s causing it?” Hermione said, then shared a look with Ron. “We want to help you, but we can only do that if you’re honest with us.”

“We’re not bloody mind readers,” Ron said.

“Is—is it Ginny?” Hermione asked quietly.

“Or work?” Ron added in a high voice. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to get the hell away from the Ministry. You could always come work with George and me.”

He tried to be a little honest. “I just . . . don’t like myself right now. And . . . I don’t want to be around other people because when I’m alone I can forget who I am.”

“We had no idea,” Hermione said. 

“Yeah, well, I can’t stand myself at the moment.” He didn’t know where all of this was coming from, but it was true, so fucking true. He was yelling. “I offer nothing of value to my family! My kids get harassed on the street because of me; Ginny had to quit Quidditch because I can’t work the fucking washer. Everywhere I go people applaud me, want something from me, take from me without permission. And I just let them! I just let them because I’m _nothing_ , I’m nobody, I’m _not real_.”

Ron looked around wildly. “Oi—is it 1996 again? I’m having a flashback.”

“This isn’t the time for jokes, Ronald,” Hermione said, her eyes tearful.

Harry turned away from them, livid. Of course it was a joke to them. They’ve never understood. God, he wanted to tell them. He wanted to scream in their faces: “I’M FUCKING DRACO MALFOY!” Just to see their bloody expressions. They thought they knew everything about him; they knew nothing!

He swerved back to them, and his stupid tears were at the surface again. “Nobody has ever truly wanted me. You lot knew about _Harry Potter_ before I even did. When I shag Ginny, she probably thinks, ‘Wow, I have the Boy Who Lived’s cock inside me.’” Ron cringed hard at this; Harry rushed on: “Sometimes I think, ‘Oh, maybe I’ll pop in at the Dursleys to have a chat. Maybe Dudley is curious about me. Maybe Petunia regrets imprisoning me in a cupboard as a child.’ Then I laugh at my stupidity because they’ve never wanted me. They’re the only ones who knew me before _Harry Potter_ , and they treated me like rubbish, like a sick stain on the carpet. And you know what? Maybe I am. Maybe, beneath it all, I am nothing more than shite.”

“We love you, Harry!” Hermione cried. “Everyone loves you!”

“Mum scrubs your pants by hand, mate. That’s definitely love,” Ron said.

“Why do you insist on joking about it?” he yelled at Ron. He was giving them what they wanted, what they forced from him. They shouldn’t even be there! Why couldn’t Harry choose when he had visitors in his own home? He wanted to be alone in his locked study. He wanted to recline in his makeshift bed and just _remember_. 

Ron didn’t react. He merely gazed up at Harry from the sofa.

“Ron has a hard time with emotion, you know that,” Hermione said. “He loves you. He’s trying to make you see that you are valued.”

 _He wouldn’t be joking if he knew the truth_ , Harry thought savagely, and almost told him just to see him come apart. He’d kill Harry for cheating on Ginny. All the Weasleys would hate him. Gone the Burrow and Molly’s overbearing affection and Arthur’s goofy kindness. Gone Sunday Night Dinner and his children being best mates with their cousins. 

It would ruin _everything_ if they knew.

Harry collapsed on the sofa, his head in his hands. He was disgusting, He was disgusting. He was so fucking disgusting.

Ron put his arm around Harry and pulled him into an awkward hug. He didn’t say anything; he just kept on embracing him. Harry didn’t know what to do. It’d been a long time since they’d hugged.

“Tell us what we can do to help.” Hermione patted his shoulder.

Tears stung his eyes, but he refused to cry again. He never wanted to lose their loyalty, their compassion. They didn’t need to know. He would figure out a way to control himself. He would figure out a way to stop seeing Malfoy. There was still a chance for things to go back to normal. He couldn’t lose his best friends.

“Thanks, mate,” he said, and extracted himself from Ron’s arms. He scratched at his face and grunted. He stood and attempted his most sincere smile. “I’m _fine_. I think this sabbatical was a bad idea. I should probably just go back to work. Make myself feel useful again.”

They looked at him incredulously. 

“Want to go out for a pint?” Ron asked.

“We can do whatever you want, Harry,” Hermione said.

“No, I think I just want to be alone.” He couldn’t risk being intoxicated around them. “Ginny will be home soon and I want to have dinner with her and just have a relaxing, child-free night.”

Hermione nodded. “We’ll pop in to check up on the children after we leave here. I should take one of those treacle tarts to Molly as a ‘thank you’ for watching them.”

“Good idea.” He hoped his voice was bright. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going up to my room now. Thank you for everything.”

He didn’t wait for their response. He went to his bedroom and put the strongest locking spell he knew on the door. He fell back on the bed with a loud groan. He hid his face beneath a pillow.

God, why couldn’t he just be somebody else?


	6. Chapter 6

When Ginny arrived home that night, Harry had the food that his children made warm and ready on the counter for her. She paused at the kitchen doorway, her expression guarded. He’d always loved her big brown eyes, and now their hopeful hesitation made him ache.

“Hermione owled me and explained what happened,” she said softly. 

He went to her. “Yes, I made a right fool of myself.” He took her hands. “I’m glad we have the night to ourselves.”

She smiled a little. “Me too.” She sat with him at the table. “I’m sorry that I lost my temper. I should’ve talked to you a long time ago about . . . my frustrations.”

“I’m just trying to help. I have all this free time now and I wanted to be useful.”

“And I appreciate that, but I wish you would’ve started helping out ten years ago.” She laughed and shook her head. “You’re only cooking and cleaning now because you’re going through some kind of crisis and you want to experiment.” She fell silent, but he could tell that she wanted to say more.

“Let me have it. I can handle it,” he said, squeezing her hand.

She spoke slowly, like she mulled over each word. “Try to see it from my point of view: wives never get to have crises. The moment we get married, the moment we have children, our families are supposed to be enough, and there’s something wrong with _us_ , not with the world, if, for even a second, we feel like it’s all been a mistake.”

Harry frowned. “I’ve never thought our marriage was a mistake. I’ve always seen us as equals.”

She stared down at the table. “I know you think we’re equals, but we’re not. We’ve never been equals. You just don’t see it because it’s ingrained in you that women should be submissive.” He tried to protest but she quieted him. “I’m not saying you’re conscious of it. I’m saying that it’s a truth you hold so deeply that you don’t even know it’s there.”

Cold panic rose in him. “I had no idea you were so unhappy,” he whispered.

“I’m not.” Ginny stood and began pacing. “It’s hard to explain. Everything revolves around you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not surprised.” She paused. “Two things make the world revolve around you: first, you’re bloody Harry Potter; second, you’re a man. Men dictate most things, no matter if they’re aware of it or not. And sometimes Harry Potter sucks up so much attention and oxygen that I feel like I could suffocate and nobody would notice.”

“I thought you loved me,” Harry said, and his voice was so very small.

Ginny crouched down to hug him. “I do! I love you with all my heart. But that doesn’t mean you don’t make me angry sometimes.”

Harry flinched. He loved her so much. She was worth a hundred of him; she was brave enough to talk to him about her disappointments while he . . . God, he couldn’t even think it right now.

He took a deep breath. “I can understand about the Harry Potter part. I know my fame hangs over this family. It kills me that people harass you and the children because of me. I guess I need to do more to make up for it.”

“All you can do is ask the right questions, and listen. Things are only going to get harder once the kids enter Hogwarts and all their classmates are desperate to know about their dad.”

“I hate it so much!” He hid his face. “I did what was asked of me. I fucking _died_ for these people. But it never ends. It’s been nearly twenty years, and I’m still the Boy Who Lived. I just want to be left alone.”

Ginny rubbed his back. “That’s never going to happen. Once you accept that, then you can start helping others deal with it too. My whole point is that you’re not the only one who has to live in the Chosen One’s shadow. It’s time for you to stop thinking solely about yourself.”

Harry wanted to protest—he did think about others!—but he also knew that he had no right to stick up for himself. Ginny would have a lot more to say if she actually knew the truth.

He pressed his face to her. He felt awful. His self-loathing made his skin crawl. He wanted to make Ginny happy. He kissed her neck and cupped her breast. Sex was always the fall back. Sex could make anything better.

“You fiend,” she said, laughing. “Here I am spilling my darkest thoughts about our marriage and you’re just thinking about getting into my knickers.”

“No,” he said, but his hand was already crawling under her jumper. “I’ve hurt you. I want to make it up to you.”

“We do have the house to ourselves.”

He picked her up in his arms. “Quick! We should shag in a very inappropriate place while we have the chance.”

She laughed and clung to him. “Like what? The kitchen table?”

“Great idea.” He didn’t let himself think about Zabini’s kitchen counter. He sat her on their table.

“You’ve been quite mean to me lately,” she said, running her hands through his hair. “How exactly are you going to make it up to me?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He pulled off her jumper and went to do the same with her bra. She stopped him.

“I’m not sure if you deserve to see my tits.” She laughed, but there was tension in her voice.

He tried to read her. “Do you not want to do this?”

She smiled. “I want to do it, but I also want to remind you of my value.” She unclasped her bra and slowly let it fall. She wet her finger and played with a nipple. “I usually don’t let naughty boys touch me.”

Harry was aroused, but there was also something about her demeanor that annoyed him. He knew there was every reason for him to grovel at her feet, but he didn’t want to. That wasn’t their dynamic.

“I thought you liked naughty boys,” he whispered. He pulled her to her feet. He tried to kiss her but she stopped him. He watched her face. She was grinning, but there also was a challenge in her eyes. Again, he tried to kiss her, and again she resisted him. 

“I’m not giving in that easily,” she said, a little nervous. She smirked.

His face grew hot. He didn’t like her challenging him sexually and he wanted her to know that. He tried to yank her closer, but she smacked his face.

They stared at each other, stunned.

“Was that too far?” she said quietly.

“No,” he said, and lunged for her. She evaded him. They circled the table, sizing each other up. Ginny laughed. Harry didn’t.

“No wands,” he said, and threw his to the floor. Ginny did the same.

She caressed her breasts, weighing them in her hands. “I dare you to catch me.”

He darted after her. He out-smarted her and pinned her to the wall. Ginny fought him. She was smaller but she still had strength in her. Her elbow caught him in the stomach. He got both her arms behind her back.

“Do you give up?” he said roughly.

“Never!” She laughed and struggled some more.

He pulled her away from the wall and forced her face-first on the table. He moaned. Malfoy had gone this exact thing to him. Now Harry would get to do it to Ginny. He yanked down her trousers and knickers to her ankles. 

“Kick them off,” he ordered. She did as she was told, and her clothes landed over near their wands.

He penetrated her with a finger to see if she was ready.

“Christ,” he whispered, because he didn’t think he’d ever gotten Ginny this wet. He sunk three digits into her, fucking her slowly, then withdrew. Her arousal webbed his fingers.

Ginny reared up, trying to elbow him. He forced her down again, pinning her arms to the table, and kicked her legs wider. 

“You want this cock?” he said hotly into her ear.

“Maybe.”

“I’m so hard for you. You’re so wet for me. I know you want me inside you. I’ll fill you so nicely. Go so softly at first. Make you want it even more.”

She moaned loudly and dropped her head. This was what he must’ve been like when Malfoy had him pinned to the counter. The thought made him breathless.

He kissed her shoulder, her neck. Again he asked: “Do you want this cock?”

There was a pause. “Yes.”

“Very good,” he said, and managed to get his cock out using one hand. It took him a moment to line up correctly, but then he was sliding into her, and they both whined. He slowly thrust in and out, and focused on not trembling too much. He sped up and he was sure his zipper was digging into her thigh.

“Fuck,” Gin said. 

He cupped her breasts and maneuvered her into a standing position. He squeezed and rubbed her as he let her get used to the new angle; then he grabbed her throat and waist, and began pounding into her. Her mouth fell open; he couldn’t see her eyes but he imagined they were fluttering.

“You were made for my cock,” he whispered, and he imagined whispering the same to Malfoy. He visualized Malfoy watching all this. Maybe at first he’d feign disinterest, but as Harry fucked Ginny harder and harder, he’d be overwhelmed by arousal and forced to jerk himself off, his pretty, pretty face flushed and desperate.

The image made Harry thrust erratically. He was getting close. He thought to slow down for Ginny’s sake, but he couldn’t. He wanted Malfoy to see how well he fucked his wife. He wanted Malfoy to see this and be jealous. He wanted to see Malfoy fuck Ginny. He wanted them to both fuck Ginny. He wanted Ginny to fucking _scream_ around his cock as Malfoy ploughed into her.

All these fantasies made him careless. He wasn’t controlling Ginny like he needed to and his grip slackened. She sensed this and pulled away; he had no idea what was happening; she pushed him to the floor and crawled onto his face. She took off his glasses and threw them onto the table.

“Eat it,” she said, tightening her thighs. She yanked at his hair, controlling his head. “I win. You lose.”

He moaned deeply. They’d done this before, but it’d always felt like Harry was rewarding Ginny instead of him not having any choice. He began licking at her feverishly, suddenly understanding. She deserved this. She deserved to dominate and humiliate him, because he was the dirty fucking cheater, not her. 

(There was no way she knew, right? Maybe she suspected. Maybe she suspected and hated him. No, no, she would’ve confronted him. She would’ve yelled and raged instead of keeping it a secret.)

He grabbed her waist and pressed her down harder on his mouth. He fucked her with his tongue, not caring that he couldn’t breathe, not caring that she drained down his neck. She was trembling. He opened his mouth and let her ride his face. His head was swimming. Maybe he’d lose consciousness and never wake up.

“F-f-fuck,” she cried, “I’m gonna come.” She placed his hand on his prick. He jerked himself off. He imagined it was Malfoy’s hand or, better yet, his hot mouth sucking him like it had earlier that day. God, if only he could have them both. He’d do anything for them to team up and just _use_ him. He imagined them smirking at each other, conspiring to do whatever it took to make him beg, and he came. His come splattered his shirt, the floor, and his cries were muffled.

Ginny’s orgasm had made her energetic, a bit frantic. She jumped up to retrieve her wand and carefully clean his face. She kissed his forehead. “That was fun.”

He pulled her down into a deep kiss. “I love you so much,” he said. They kissed and kissed, and he didn’t think of Malfoy. He didn’t.

*

The next morning he awoke to Ginny nestled into his side. He twirled her brilliant hair around his finger. He wreathed her face in kisses, and she laughed sleepily and tried to move her head. The moment he left this bed things would be different. Ginny was too important, too _brave_ , for him to want Malfoy.

He also needed to make up a lot to his children. He didn’t want them to blame themselves for what happened the day before. He wanted to spoil them so they would understand they’d nothing to do with his outburst.

He thought about taking them to a magical theme park, but cringed when he imagined them being harassed and followed by the other visitors. Then he remembered the Muggle theme park he’d always wanted to go to as a kid: Thorpe Park.

Excited, he shot out of bed. He’d have breakfast ready for when they returned from the Burrow. He tried to remember what they liked to eat and decided to make blueberry pancakes. Yes, they’d love those. 

Later, once he’d made breakfast and Ginny’d gone off to work, he Floo’ed Molly to bring the kids back and to thank her for looking after them on such short notice.

“Thank you so much for everything,” he said, hoping his voice sounded genuine. She looked at him closely, and he refused to wonder if she knew about his episode.

“Of course,” she said. “Arthur and I love the children. We love you, too. We want to help in any way we can.”

He squinted at her. Yep, she definitely knew something. “Thank you for that. You can send the little terrors over now.” He made sure to smile before ending the Floo.

A few moments later, his kids came tumbling out of the fireplace.

“Guess what I made?” He grinned.

Al sniffed the air. “Pancakes!” His kids cheered and rushed down to the kitchen.

While they stuffed their faces with pancakes, Harry said, “I want to thank you for your wonderful surprise yesterday. I know I reacted poorly, but I want you to know that it had nothing to do with you lot.”

“It’s okay,” James said, dipping his fingers into syrup.

“We understand,” Lily said, and she had a bit of pancake in her hair.

“Yeah, we got it. You were dealing with stupid grown up stuff.” Al paused and narrow his eyes at him. “So—what do we get in return? Are you doing something nice for us?”

“I want to go to the zoo!” Lily said.

Harry sighed. “You’re right, Al. I do want to do something nice for you three. I’m taking you to a theme park today.”

They cheered. James threw a pancake up in the air and tried to catch it with his mouth. It bounced on his forehead and fell to the floor.

“None of that!” Harry was already dreading this outing.

*

At Thorpe Park, they were drenched by roaring waters on the _Storm Surge_ , their little boat spinning around and around. Lily hid her face in his arm and refused to glance down. Afterward they were all freezing and Harry had to discreetly cast warming charms on them. Then they rode the _Quantum_ , which Lily liked more because it looked like a magic carpet. After a hunt for a face painting stall, they discovered the spinning teacups, which everyone loved except Harry, and he was forced to sit with his head between his knees after their second ride. When James and Al spotted the _Colossus_ , they begged to have a go, and Harry gave his blessings with a good amount of hesitation. He didn’t even know if Al was tall enough to ride the monster rollercoaster, but he suspected that Al’s magic would make him grow the few inches to pass muster.

“Let’s find a treat,” he said to Lily, and they walked hand-in-hand to the Donut Factory where they gorged themselves on donut sundaes. Lily got strawberry sauce all over her nose and chin, and Harry didn’t immediately wipe it off because it was just so damn cute.

James and Al found them a little while later, and both were quite green in the face. Harry bought them each a can of orangeade to help settle their stomachs.

“Should we find another ride or have you lot had enough?” he asked.

James was guzzling his orangeade like he hadn’t drank anything in days. He burped loudly. “I’m starving.”

“I’m tired,” Al said, resting his head on the table. 

“Should we find a restaurant?” Harry asked.

“I want pizza!” Lily said. “With pineapple!”

“Pizza it is,” he said, grinning.

*

The next day he took them back to Diagon Alley for some ice cream and shopping. When they’d had their fill at Fortescue’s, he remained at the table and watched them debate which shop they’d go to first.

Harry thought it’d be best for everyone if they went by themselves. They were getting older now and he needed to learn how to give them space.

“Okay,” James said, clearly the ringleader, “we’re going to the toy shop first. Then we will visit Flourish and Blotts. Then we’ll—”

Harry held up his hand. He cast a guardian charm on them. “I don’t need to know every place you go. Just don’t leave Diagon Alley and meet me back here in an hour.”

His kids nodded and left. He sighed. It felt good to be alone, even if he was still nervous about them running around by themselves in the wizarding world. But he trusted the charm to alert him if they encountered any serious dangers.

He also wanted to be alone because it gave him time with his thoughts. He picked up a forgotten _Prophet_ and moved to a more secluded table. Hopefully nobody would bother him now. He stared unseeing at the newspaper’s front page. He wondered what Malfoy was doing. He checked his watch. It was a little before lunchtime; maybe he was considering where he’d go to eat . . . or maybe he brought his lunch on the days he didn’t meet Harry. With all those house elves, it’d be silly to not let them make him lunch.

He wished he could stop thinking about Malfoy, but it was nearly impossible when he was alone. His kids weren’t around to distract him, and now he was bombarded with all the delicious memories of Malfoy’s cock, his moaning, and his wet, wet mouth sliding down Harry’s prick. Harry shifted in his seat. Okay, now he really had to find a distraction, or else he’d get a hard-on right there in the damn ice cream shop.

Flipping through the newspaper, he looked for Ginny’s byline and found it in the sports section. Her recaps of all the Quidditch matches were always so concise, so entertaining; he marveled at her writing ability. She should write a book about Quidditch, maybe a biography like Munsterberg’s. He skimmed some more, and refused to pause whenever he glimpsed his name. 

He turned to the society section and stumbled on a photograph of Malfoy and his family. His stomach clenched. He stared at Malfoy’s smiling, but reserved face. Harry couldn’t believe he now knew what a genuine smile looked like on Malfoy. Harry took a deep breath and gazed at Malfoy’s wife and child. It must’ve been an older photograph, because his wife looked healthy and Scorpius was a lot smaller. 

He had to admit: Malfoy’s wife was very attractive. He read the caption. Her name was Astoria. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d known that. Malfoy had married her young, only a few years after the war. Harry stared at her some more. She was quite small; she only came up to Malfoy’s chest. She had brown hair and a heart-shaped face; her eyes were her best feature. They were dark, heavy-lidded, almost like Bellatrix Lestrange’s. Harry shivered.

He wondered what it was like when they fucked. Did Malfoy enjoy it? Astoria looked like someone with secrets. She was small and girlish, but those eyes said she could take a hard cock. He imagined watching them. Malfoy on top and just drilling into her. Better yet, Malfoy in a chair with her riding his cock. She’d press her mouth to his shoulder to muffle a cry and Malfoy would look over her at Harry. He’d thrust harder, faster, as he stared into Harry’s eyes.

Dropping the newspaper, Harry hid his face. What the fuck was wrong with him? The woman was _dying_ for Christ’s sake, and he was thinking about watching her get fucked by her husband. This affair business had changed him. He’d always liked sex, but sleeping with Malfoy had made him sex-crazed. Everything made him think about sex. Everything made him think about Malfoy. He thrust a little in his seat. He had the beginnings of an erection and he was so ashamed.

Did Malfoy think about Harry fucking Ginny? Harry hoped so. It was wrong, and Ginny didn’t deserve it, but he hoped Malfoy imagined him fucking her into oblivion and was overcome by desperate need. He’d fuck Malfoy so well, if only he was given the opportunity.

No, no. He couldn’t think about that right now. He shouldn’t be thinking about fucking Malfoy at all. He needed to be focused on controlling himself before their affair ruined his life.

*

Nearly two weeks after he last saw Malfoy, Harry sipped tea at the Crossings and once again failed at not thinking about him. For the past couple of days, he’d come here for reasons that were obvious and pathetic. He just wanted to see the other man. He wanted to hide in a corner and watch him order a sandwich or talk to another healer. He wanted Malfoy to bring in his son so he’d know what Malfoy was like as a father.

 _It’s quite possible I’m losing my mind_ , he thought. Stalking Malfoy was nothing new to him, but he was appalled that he wanted to do it again after all these years. He still had the invisibility cloak . . . maybe he could just take a stroll around St Mungo’s . . .

Harry dug his knuckles into his eyes. God, there truly was something wrong with him. He laughed bitterly. There’d been many times in the past week when he imagined writing Malfoy an owl explaining that they could never see each other again. But every time he took out quill and parchment to begin the letter, his hands shook and he began to breathe heavily. He always ended up tearing at the parchment, his hair, hating himself, hating the situation.

He should just forget the whole thing. Malfoy didn’t know him like Ginny. Malfoy was infatuated with his reputation. He’d always been more invested in what people thought of _Harry Potter_ than—

Harry blinked. Malfoy stood in front of him.

“Hello,” Malfoy said.

Harry didn’t know what to say.

Malfoy frowned. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Harry rubbed at his face. “You just startled me. What are you doing here?”

Malfoy’s frown deepened. “You know what I’m doing here.”

“You’ve come for me?”

“No, I was hungry. It’s time for my lunch.”

“Oh, that’s all?” Harry was disappointed.

Malfoy sighed. “No, that’s not all. I—I made up my mind to see you today.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

Hesitating, Malfoy said, “I’ve seen you come in here recently.”

Harry grinned. “You’ve been following me.”

“No! It was entirely coincidence. I wanted their cheese and pickle, but I saw that you were here and decided to leave.”

“Sure,” he said, still grinning. “Are you going to sit down?”

Huffing, Malfoy took up the other chair. He seemed to not know what to do with his hands. He didn’t look at Harry. His expression was distraught, almost sad.

“I could leave, you know.” Harry didn’t really know what he was saying. “If that’s what you want.” 

Malfoy wrung his hands. “Yes . . . that’s probably for the best.”

Harry didn’t move. “Are you sure?”

“No.” Swearing, Malfoy stood. “Come back to the flat with me. I can make us some sandwiches.”

“I don’t want to eat,” Harry said, and something electric passed between them. Malfoy’s gaze was half-lidded, his breathing suddenly hard.

“Good,” Malfoy whispered, staring into Harry’s eyes.

Harry scrambled to his feet. He pulled Malfoy to him. They spun and Apparated directly into the flat. They were kissing before Harry became aware of his surroundings. He pushed Malfoy against the door and clawed at his back. Yes. Yes. Oh, God. _Yes._ It’d been too fucking long.

“Wait—” Malfoy panted.

“No.” Harry tried to kiss him again.

“We have to slow down. I need to tell you something.”

Harry stilled. “What is it?”

Malfoy removed himself from their embrace. “Let’s have some tea. We’ll talk then.”

Frowning, Harry said, “But I don’t want tea.” Malfoy was already walking to the kitchen. Harry groaned and followed.

They sat at the table. Harry noticed the ease at which Malfoy made tea: he knew the location of the spoons and cups; he handled the kettle like he owned it.

“How many men have you brought here to fuck?” Harry said.

Malfoy paused. “A few.”

“And your wife?”

Malfoy tapped his wand against the kettle and waited the few seconds for it to boil. Harry placed his hand over Malfoy’s.

“Does your wife know?” he asked again.

Malfoy flicked his hand away; he shook with anger. He poured water into their cups and dribbled some on the table. “No, all right? She doesn’t have a fucking clue, and I’m a bad, bad man for cheating on her.”

“Aren’t you afraid that she knows?”

Malfoy squinted at him. “Is that a threat?”

“No—I’m just trying to understand.”

“So you didn’t tell your wife about us.” Malfoy smirked.

“You know I wouldn’t be here if I had.”

They fell silent. They watched their tea seep and then sipped from their cups. Harry tried to catch Malfoy’s eyes but Malfoy refused to look at him.

Harry’s heart pounded. He knew something was wrong. _Just ask_ , he thought. _Whatever it is, you will deal with it._

Breathing deeply, Harry said, “What did you have to tell me?” 

Malfoy didn’t answer right away. He played with his cup and his hand quivered. “My family and I are going away.”

Harry was startled. “Why?”

“This can’t continue,” Malfoy said, gesturing between them. “It wasn’t a lie that my wife is dying. We’re going away to seek treatment for her, or maybe just to find a nice hospice.”

“Where?” 

Malfoy avoided his gaze. “It would be best if I didn’t tell you. I’m sure you’ll find out eventually, but—it’s better for now if you don’t know.”

Harry felt adrift; he clutched at the table to steady himself. Despite planning this exact thing, it still shocked him deeply to hear Malfoy say it. No—Malfoy couldn’t be the one to end it. Harry was supposed to be the one. It was supposed to be _his_ choice.

“When—when are you leaving?” he whispered.

“Tomorrow.”

“What?” Harry yelled. He stood, not really knowing what he was doing.

Malfoy stood as well. “Be reasonable about this!”

Harry didn’t hear him. He left the kitchen and stumbled to the front door. He was leaving. He couldn’t handle this.

Malfoy followed and grabbed his arm. 

Harry pushed him away. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? Why—” He lunged at Malfoy, wanting to hit him, feeling completely used, but he tripped over his own feet. Malfoy caught him.

“It’s better this way, you know it is!” Malfoy said. “Think of your children. Think of your wife.”

Harry was just so damn hurt. He shoved Malfoy away. “I should have known not to trust you.” He put his back to Malfoy, and smacked his forehead. “I’m an idiot—I’m pathetic. I let you do this to me.”

Malfoy stepped closer. “When we spoke about your children you said you were devoted to them. You said you would do anything for them. I told you I felt the same way about Scorpius. We owe it to our children to end this before it gets out of hand.”

“End what exactly?” Harry said, vicious. He turned to Malfoy. “Nothing has really happened between us. I’ve let you put your hands on me; I’ve let you put your mouth on me. You have let me do no such thing in return. I’ve just been your plaything!”

“Something has happened; you can’t deny it,” Malfoy said quietly.

“You’ve probably been laughing at me this whole time. You’re probably thrilled at how stupid I’ve been. How I’ve let you _use_ me!”

Malfoy jerked closer to point in his face. “I never laughed at you! Never!”

“Why should I believe that? You were always laughing at me before.”

Malfoy gaped at him. “We were children! I thought—I thought you understood that I had changed!”

Harry stepped back and crossed his arms. “I see no changes.” He knew he was wrong for saying it; he knew that, despite all of his flaws, Malfoy had spent the better part of twenty years trying to amend for his mistakes during the war. 

“Damn you!” Malfoy fisted his hands as if it was taking everything in him not to go for his wand. “You know that I’m making the right decision! Our families deserve better than this! _We_ deserve better than this!”

Harry was burning up inside, but his outward demeanor was all ice. “You deserve nothing.”

“I will leave! I will walk out that door right now and we will never see each other again.”

“Go then. Why do we need to prolong the goodbye?”

Malfoy worked his mouth, struggling to find the words; his face was horribly flushed. “I don’t want to leave just yet. I want us to have a proper goodbye.”

“Then why did you threaten to do it?”

“Because you make me absolutely _crazy_!” Malfoy came at him; Harry thought he’d be strangled. Malfoy framed his face and kissed him. They were both trembling. “God, I hate you,” Malfoy whispered.

“Shut up.” Harry dropped to his knees and began unclasping Malfoy’s belt. Malfoy clawed at his hands but Harry smacked them away. “You’re going to fucking let me do this!”

Remarkably, Malfoy didn’t fight him. Instead he unbuttoned his coat and let it pool around his feet. Harry’s fingers shook as he unzipped his trousers. He pulled down his pants to reveal Malfoy’s half-hard cock. He gulped.

Malfoy cradled Harry’s head. He gently took off Harry’s glasses and dropped them onto his coat. “Are you sure you can take me?”

Harry glared up at him. “Don’t underestimate me.” Malfoy’s cock twitched, and Harry was fascinated. He didn’t know if he should stroke Malfoy a bit or go right into it. He chose the latter: he wrapped his mouth around Malfoy’s cock and sucked softly. Harry moaned when he felt Malfoy stiffen against his tongue.

He looked up. Malfoy seemed entranced. He covered Harry’s eyes for a moment. “God, you terrify me.”

Not knowing how to respond, Harry bobbed his head and sucked a little harder.

“Harry,” Malfoy sighed. Harry glanced up again but he couldn’t really see anything. He thought Malfoy had his head thrown back.

Harry tried to take him deeper, and mostly succeeded, but pre-come _gushed_ into his mouth, which made him sputter and cough. He drew back and tried to spit most of it out. He laughed, because he was just so damn _weak_. Malfoy had slurped and swallowed until Harry was coming down his throat, on his tongue, dripping down his chin, and Harry couldn’t even take a little pre-come.

“What could possibly be funny?” Malfoy said.

“I dunno,” Harry said, and he nuzzled Malfoy’s hip to hide his face. “I’m laughing at myself. I’m laughing because I’m happy.”

Malfoy hummed. He held his cock and dragged it along Harry’s lips. “Sucking my cock makes you happy?”

“Yes.” Harry licked at Malfoy’s head. There was that ghastly taste again. He held it on his tongue, forcing himself to get used to it.

“Show me how happy.” Malfoy thrust into his mouth, and Harry tried to open as wide as possible. Malfoy ran his hands through his hair; he controlled Harry’s head as he oh so gently fucked his mouth. It was quite considerate of him. “Be careful of teeth,” Malfoy panted, and put his fingers into Harry’s mouth.

Harry sucked both his cock and fingers. He tried setting a rhythm but he was still awkward. He moved back when his jaw ached too much. He batted Malfoy’s hands away. He stroked Malfoy’s cock and swiped his thumb over its head. He licked along his shaft, then pushed it to the side to suck at Malfoy’s bollocks. This made Malfoy tremble, his hands jerking at his sides. He tongued at Malfoy’s bollocks, then licked hotly along his cock, then repeated it all over again. Malfoy was moaning; he dug his fingers into Harry’s shoulders. Harry squeezed his own cock through his jeans.

“Stop,” Malfoy gasped. “I don’t want to come yet.”

Harry stood and wiped at his mouth. “Take me to the bedroom.”

Malfoy looked dazed. He held Harry’s hand and pulled him down the hallway to an enormous bedroom. His red cock bobbed, his unbuckled trousers falling down his thin hips. Harry couldn’t take it; he pounced on Malfoy from behind and guided him face-first onto the bed. If this was the first and last time they were doing this, then he damn well was going to get his fill.

He yanked Malfoy’s clothes off. Malfoy helped with his shirt. 

God, Harry never thought a man could have such a nice arse. It was perky and fleshy and had some muscle. It honestly reminded him of Ginny’s arse when she was still playing Quidditch. His handprint would look so nice against his white cheek.

“Can I spank you?” he asked. Malfoy didn’t respond. He caressed a cheek and asked again.

“Three times.” Malfoy’s voice was muffled. “That’s all you get.”

“Three spanks? That’s oddly specific. Is it three spanks now or three spanks during the entire fuck?”

“Now.”

He smacked Malfoy’s right cheek, but it was awkward and made little sound. Malfoy whined. Harry frowned. He didn’t want to waste all his smacks before he nailed down his aim. 

Instead he kneaded Malfoy’s cheeks in both hands; they were so fucking _solid_. He never thought touching men could be like this. He never thought men could have flesh that would bounce against his palms.

But—he also didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Malfoy’s body wasn’t all that different from Gin’s; they just pleased Harry for different reasons. Sure, Malfoy didn’t have tits and wide hips, but he was warm and alive and thrilling just like any woman.

He spread Malfoy’s cheeks and gazed at his arsehole. It was pink like his cock. He expected to be intimidated, slightly disgusted, but it was clear that Malfoy maintained his arse. It was more proof that Malfoy had slept around before Harry and he’d continue to sleep around after their goodbye. He was probably an expert at using waxing and cleaning spells on his arse, because he was a slag and he’d always be a slag. Harry bit hard at Malfoy’s cheek, hating that other men had touched him so intimately. 

Malfoy yelped. 

“Can I taste you?” Harry asked, and he didn’t recognize his own voice. It was rough, almost _hateful_.

“Please,” Malfoy whispered.

Harry licked him before doubt could stop him. Malfoy moaned deeply and dropped his head to the pillow.

It wasn’t like anything Harry’d expected. He’d thought the taste would be very bitter, almost alarming, like Malfoy’s pre-come flooding his mouth. But Malfoy had obviously planned for Harry to play with his arse . . . or maybe he was always this hairless and tasteless down here because he was always having sex with men. Harry wanted to sink so deeply into Malfoy that he discovered a place no grooming spell could reach.

He lapped at Malfoy and felt his little hole twitch and relax. Malfoy seemed unable to contain himself; he moaned continuously, his strong thighs falling open. He rutted against the bed, and Harry knew he did it without thinking. The pleasure was just too good to remain still.

Harry smacked his arse again. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to fuck you,” Malfoy said. 

“Oh? Do you think you deserve it?” He remembered that Ginny had said something similar to him. It was strange and arousing that he was now saying it to Malfoy.

Malfoy rolled onto his back. His cock was wet and red, and intimidating. “Yes.” 

Harry hesitated; he definitely wasn’t pristine down there like Malfoy. He didn’t know the first thing about bum maintenance for anal sex. He also didn’t know the first thing about being penetrated.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, and regretted it immediately. He prepared for Malfoy’s taunting.

Malfoy didn’t taunt or laugh. He leaned up to kiss his neck and smooth his hands down Harry’s front. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of you. I know what I’m doing.”

“All right.” Harry removed his clothes.

Malfoy pushed him to his stomach and crouched over him. He patted for his wand on the floor and then hit Harry’s arse with multiple spells. Harry’s mouth fell open. He felt a rush of water inside him. 

“Jesus,” he said.

Malfoy laughed. “Just you wait.” He smoothed his hands down Harry’s back, his thighs. He whispered into Harry’s ear: “I’m aching for you.”

Harry shivered. “Nothing’s stopping you. Get on with it.”

Malfoy kissed down his back. He kissed Harry’s arse cheeks, caressing them until Harry relaxed. He gently pulled back his flesh to reveal his hole. “Oh, hello. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“ _Fuck off_ ,” Harry said, hiding his face in the pillows. He was so embarrassed.

Malfoy laughed. “I think he likes me. He’s winking at me.”

Harry groaned, and threw another pillow over his head. “Stop joking!”

Malfoy laughed again, and his voice was low and aroused. He put his mouth on Harry and sucked. Harry cried out. Malfoy snickered against his skin.

“None of this is funny,” Harry said.

“Oh, I disagree,” Malfoy answered. He flattened his tongue and licked Harry from bollocks to the top of his arse. Then he drilled into Harry’s hole with his tongue.

“Fuck,” Harry whimpered.

“Nobody’s ever done this to you.” Malfoy’s fingers dug into Harry’s thighs. “Your sweet virgin arse and I get to be the first.” He quickened his licks, his spit wetting Harry’s cheeks. His tongue penetrated Harry.

Harry yelped. He tried to move away but Malfoy pinned him to the bed.

“Hang in there. You’re doing so well.” Malfoy caressed his back. Harry didn’t know what to do; he didn’t know how to feel.

“Get to the fingers part,” Harry said, his teeth chattering.

“Fine,” Malfoy pouted. He cast another spell.

Harry clenched and felt lube drip out of him. Christ. His heart was in his throat.

Malfoy inserted a finger. Harry grimaced.

“You need to stop clenching,” Malfoy said.

Harry nodded and tried to relax. Malfoy moved his finger in and out; Harry pressed his face to the bed, willing his mind to go blank. It just felt so _weird_. Malfoy added a second finger. Harry didn’t let himself make sound. This became impossible when Malfoy added a third.

Malfoy’s fingers _burned_ ; Harry bit down on the sheets and tried to relax again. His mind swam with fear and elation—he was afraid for Malfoy to go further, but he was elated that he was in pain. He deserved this pain. He pushed back a little on Malfoy’s fingers, and gasped. He deserved to be ripped wide open for doing this with Malfoy.

“More,” Harry grunted. He stroked his cock, trying to ignore the discomfort.

“More?” Malfoy said, strained. “You want me to fill you up with my cock?”

“Yes,” he said, even though his stomach dropped. _Just keep breathing. Everything’s going to be fine._

Malfoy moved away. He muttered something else but Harry didn’t pay any attention. Then his cock was at Harry’s hole.

“You need to relax.” Malfoy kissed his back.

“Sure.” Harry just wanted to get this over with.

Malfoy caressed his sides, and his hands were shaking. “I’m going to enter you now.” Harry nodded. He thought Malfoy would push in just a little, but he didn’t. Malfoy thrust and his cock popped through in one go.

“Fuck!” Harry lurched up, trying to get away. Holy shite. _It hurt._

“Please breathe,” Malfoy whispered. “You need to breathe.”

Malfoy slid further into him. Harry couldn’t relax. Alarms were going off in his head. This wasn’t right. Surely Malfoy was tearing him open. Surely Harry was bleeding. 

“Are you okay?” Malfoy panted.

“No.” He was definitely not okay. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. Panic was overwhelming him.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Harry couldn’t answer. He fisted the bedding. He was hyperventilating.

Malfoy pulled out slowly, and Harry whimpered when his cock popped free. He took Harry into his arms. “Shh, you’re okay. Everything’s fine.” Harry was trembling. He felt cold all over. “I was too eager. I didn’t prepare you enough. I’m sorry.” Malfoy kissed his temple.

“I don’t know what happened,” Harry stuttered. His arse was throbbing. “Are you sure there’s no damage?”

“I’m sure. I can heal the pain too.”

“Okay.” Harry was still shaking.

Malfoy tapped his wand to Harry. A cool tingling numbed the ache. Malfoy laid them down and pulled Harry to his chest. 

Harry turned his head. “Kiss me.”

Malfoy kissed him and dragged his hand down Harry’s stomach. He wrapped his hand around Harry’s cock and tugged. Harry moaned.

“Do you want to fuck me instead?” Malfoy whispered.

“You’d want that?” Harry asked, a bit amazed.

“Fuck yes.” Malfoy kissed his cheek. “I’m more experienced than you. I can definitely take your cock.”

Harry glared. “I never said I knew what I was doing.”

“I know.” Malfoy moved away to lie on his back, spreading his legs. He conjured some lube in his hand and started to work his arse open with one, then two fingers. “You won’t believe how tight and warm I am. I’m desperate for you.”

For a moment Harry didn’t move. He just stared open mouthed at Malfoy’s fingers plunging in and out. He stroked his cock. He could come just like this and he wouldn’t even mind.

“Harry.” Malfoy curled his fingers up and hit something that made him convulse. “ _Please._ ”

“You don’t mind that it’s not the other way?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. He spread his legs even wider and added a third finger. He gasped. “Stop thinking about it. Come over here and fuck me.”

Harry hesitated, thinking about how much it hurt to have Malfoy inside him.

Malfoy read him. “You don’t have to worry about hurting me.” He pulled Harry on top of him. “I’m not fragile. Just go slow at first and then you can do whatever you want after that.”

“Yeah.” Harry was a little dizzy. He lined up his cock with Malfoy’s arsehole. It just seemed impossible. His hole looked so delicate and small. “Are you sure?”

“Fuck me, Harry,” Malfoy whispered into his ear. 

“Yeah.” He didn’t really know what he was saying. “I can do that.” He pushed in and felt Malfoy tense beneath him.

“Don’t stop,” Malfoy choked out.

Harry pushed in deeper and paused to collect himself. Malfoy’s arse was almost too tight. Harry’s eyes fluttered. He was floating away. No, he couldn’t do that. He had to focus. He glanced down at Malfoy and nearly came. His expression was worshipful. Harry kissed him, and Malfoy whimpered into his mouth. Harry began to move. 

Malfoy’s little hole was taking him. He was tight, so tight; Harry was left breathless. He pulled out and pushed back in, oh so carefully. Malfoy whimpered again. He was in pain, Harry could tell. Harry knew what it felt like, and it drove him crazy that Malfoy was bearing that pain all because he wanted Harry’s cock. 

Their thighs were slick. Harry sped up, and Malfoy threw his head back. Harry smelled the lube and Malfoy’s body; he felt Malfoy’s hole contract around him. He was becoming savage. He wanted to hurt Malfoy; he wanted to own him. He laced their hands together and forced them above Malfoy’s head.

He thrust a little harder. “You want my cock?” Malfoy tried to hide his face. Harry squeezed his fingers. “ _Answer me._ ”

Malfoy nodded and Harry slammed into him as best he could; it wasn’t much—he was being gripped so tightly. Malfoy cried out. 

“God—Draco.” Harry didn’t know himself. “You’re a fucking slag, aren’t you?” Malfoy didn’t respond and Harry grabbed his face. “Look at me.” Malfoy obeyed; his eyes were dazed. “You’re gonna think of my cock when other men fuck you?”

Malfoy arched his back. “Always . . . always.”

“Tell me you’re mine.” Malfoy mouthed something. Harry kissed him, breathing his exhale. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” Malfoy whispered. He jerked away, trying to hide his face again. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Harry stilled, his stomach turning cold. “Am I hurting you too much?”

“No, no,” Malfoy said, now trying to hide his tears. “Don’t stop; please, don’t fucking stop.”

“But—you’ll tell me?” Harry was so unsteady. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much?”

Malfoy strained to push him deeper. “Don’t stop . . . _please_.”

Harry’s hips began thrusting again before he’d really made up his mind. God, Malfoy was so tight. He pressed his mouth to Malfoy’s sweaty neck and sped up. Malfoy’s gorgeous arse was taking him, gripping him, opening up to him. Soon he was pounding into Malfoy, and Harry was grunting, cursing. Malfoy thrashed and wrapped his long legs around Harry’s waist. Malfoy was gasping, crying. He trembled all over and his fingers dug painfully into Harry’s shoulders. 

“Harry,” Malfoy whispered. Harry kissed him, and they both tasted like tears. Who said you couldn’t be in love with two people at once?

“No one but me,” Harry murmured. He grabbed Malfoy’s throat, squeezing; he mouthed along Malfoy’s cheek. “God, I love you.”

Malfoy cried out. He clutched at Harry’s back, his arse. “Harder, harder . . . I want it. I want it.”

Harry tightened his hold on Malfoy’s throat. He pressed his nose to Malfoy’s hair, breathing him in. He thrusted as hard as he could, his knees sliding against the sheets.

“I’m gonna come,” Malfoy choked. Harry slipped a hand between their slick stomachs to tug Malfoy’s cock. It was so stiff in his palm. 

“Fucking do it,” Harry said, and he did his best to stroke Malfoy in time with his thrusts, but it took a lot of focus and strength, and Harry was quickly losing control.

“ _Darling_ ,” Malfoy whispered, and he arched off the bed, deep, agonized moans escaping his lips. He was spilling over Harry’s hand, splattering their stomachs.

“God damn, yes,” Harry said, mindless. Malfoy was squeezing him so tightly; he didn’t stop thrusting; he felt Malfoy’s come smearing between them. 

When Malfoy recovered, he kissed Harry’s temple; he smoothed his hands down Harry’s back. “Come for me,” he said sweetly. “I want you to come inside me.”

Harry shuddered, his bollocks so very tight. Hot pleasure ran up his spine, down his thighs, and he was coming and coming, Malfoy’s tender encouragements rising above all other sound.

He slumped against Malfoy, exhausted. Harry was crying.

“I know,” Malfoy whispered. 

It was ridiculous. He was a grown man but the emotions surging inside him were too intense. He clung to Malfoy and cried into his neck.

“It has to be this way,” Malfoy said distantly.

“Yeah.” Harry got a hold of himself. He rolled over and laughed. He rubbed at his face. “Christ.”

“Agreed,” Malfoy said, barely audible. Harry leaned close to his face and realized he was asleep.

He pulled Malfoy into his arms and watched his face. His eyes fluttered, his breathing deepened. He was beautiful.

He thought about how hard he’d thrust into Malfoy. He wouldn’t be asleep if he was hurt, right? Harry hoped that Malfoy didn’t heal the pain. He wanted Malfoy to carry the ache with him for the next couple of days. He wanted Malfoy to feel his arse throb and think of him. 

Harry must’ve fallen asleep too, because sometime later he awoke to Malfoy’s hands in his hair. 

“How long have you loved me?” Harry asked, his eyes barely open. He knew it was a selfish, conceited question, but he wanted to know.

Malfoy took a deep breath. “Since I was a child. Probably. I don’t really know.”

“What age exactly?”

“I said _I don’t know_.”

“I thought you hated me.”

Malfoy snorted lightly. “I did. I was jealous of you. Everybody adored you. Even I adored you—in my own way. When I was very young I imagined we’d be friends.”

Harry propped himself up on an elbow so he could get a better view of Malfoy. “You didn’t recognize me when we first met. We were both getting fitted for Hogwarts uniforms and you were insufferable."

Frowning, Malfoy said, “I don’t remember that. What I remember is seeking you out on the train and you being rude to me when I finally found you.”

“For good reason!”

Malfoy smirked. “Perhaps.” He leaned over to kiss Harry. “I wasn’t used to not getting what I wanted. I was over the moon when I did the maths and realized we’d be at Hogwarts together. I so wanted you to be my friend, but then you flat out rejected me.”

Harry shook his head. “You made fun of Ron for being poor! How was I supposed to be your friend after that? You were utterly determined to make my life hell at school.”

Malfoy was quiet for a moment. “Your eyes do this thing when you’re angry. They flash but also—I don’t know how to describe it—you get this wounded look that makes them greener, a bit bigger, more reflective. Rita Skeeter would describe it as, ‘shimmering with hatred.’ Needless to say, I liked seeing that look very much. I wasn’t conscious of it—or, rather, I didn’t acknowledge its effect on me. It made me so happy to get under your skin and it was only later that I asked myself why.”

It took Harry some time to absorb this. “I legitimately hated you.”

“I know. At times I hated you too.”

“When I nearly killed you?”

“When you got my father sent to Azkaban.” 

“Well—that was his own fault.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said.

Harry trailed his fingers along Malfoy’s mouth. “Why did you never approach me after the war? We could’ve been friends.”

Malfoy looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Come on, tell me,” Harry said.

Malfoy shook his head. “You’re insatiable.” He sighed deeply. “I avoided you because you were dangerous.”

“Dangerous? You thought I’d get you sent to Azkaban somehow?”

“No—but that was a worry I had for a while about anyone who worked for the Ministry.” Malfoy took a deep breath. “You were dangerous because—because I felt like I was drowning every time I saw you.”

“What?” Harry laughed nervously.

Malfoy frowned at him. “You saved us all from the Dark Lord. You risked your life to save me and Greg from that damn fire. I couldn’t get that broom ride out of my mind.” He paused, as if to ask himself if he wanted to continue. “I remember sitting at Vincent’s funeral and just staring at my hands because they had touched you. The taste of your singed hair was in my mouth for _months_.”

Harry gulped. “Wow.”

Malfoy was watching him. “It’s okay if you never felt the same way.” He kissed Harry’s forehead. “I’m just grateful that I was able to have you, even if it was only briefly.”

Harry shuddered. He wasn’t ready for Malfoy to talk about them in past tense. 

“For a long time I—I had this fantasy where I saved one of your kids and you sucked my cock to thank me.” Malfoy smirked. “I always imagined a lot of shoving and you saying, ‘Anything. I’ll do anything to repay you.’ It got me through many boring shifts at St Mungo’s.”

Harry chuckled. “Is that why you jumped at the chance to treat Al?”

Malfoy stared up at the ceiling. “Maybe.”

Harry was filled with so much tenderness. He reached beneath the sheets to palm Malfoy’s soft cock.

“Don’t,” Malfoy said, stilling his hand. “We should go now.”

“Okay.” Harry didn’t allow himself to feel anything. He stood up and searched for his clothes. Malfoy did the same. When he saw Malfoy casting cleaning spells on himself, Harry did so too.

They went into the living room. Malfoy took up his glasses and gently placed them on Harry’s nose. Harry stared around at the flat. He was going to miss that stupid sofa.

He helped Malfoy with his coat. He tried to pin Malfoy to the door to kiss him but Malfoy held him off.

“Not here,” Malfoy said. “I wouldn’t be able to leave if I kissed you here.” He pulled Harry close and they Apparated.

They walked toward King’s Cross without looking at each other. There was a drizzle and the dark sky was heavy with unfallen rain. Before they entered the train station, Malfoy pulled him into a hidden corner. He pressed Harry to the wall and kissed him. It wasn’t an ordinary kiss; it was desperate, violent, almost tearful. 

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy whispered.

Harry clung to him. “Don’t be. I know this is right.”

Malfoy kissed his chin, his cheeks, his forehead. He took one of Harry’s hands and pressed his mouth to it. 

“You’ll never know,” Malfoy murmured. 

“Know what?” Harry asked, overwhelmed.

Malfoy just shook his head. He hugged Harry, and they stood there wrapped in each other’s arms for a long moment. Malfoy murmured something in his ear, but it was too low for Harry to understand.

Malfoy pulled away. He laughed, and it was terrible and nervous. “Enough of this. Let’s have our tea at the Crossings. I still have some time to come to my senses.”

Harry nodded and followed Malfoy into the station.

He wanted to die. No, no. He shouldn’t be flippant about something like that. Too many had died for him to live. He didn’t want to die; he just didn’t want to feel this way anymore. He forced himself to think about all that he was saving. He imagined the last family dinner at the Burrow. Ron and Hermione had brought along their kids; so had George, Bill, and Percy. The place had been swarming with little faces and delighted shrieking. 

Despite the full house and all the parental annoyances, he knew his children loved being at the Burrow, sneaking tastes of desserts, chasing gnomes and rabbits in a wild pack with their cousins, and this in turn made Harry love being at the Burrow too. Yes, he’d always found the Burrow comforting, homey, but these dinners made everything more important. He never wanted his children to lose that. He never wanted to lose the privilege to see his children around the Weasleys; he never wanted to walk into the Burrow and everyone fall silent out of _disgust_. 

All of that would be ripped from him if his affair with Malfoy didn’t end now. He knew that. He knew nothing good would come from continuing to see Malfoy. But . . . why couldn’t he have Malfoy _and_ the Burrow? Why did he have to choose?

“You should take the train home, too,” Malfoy said. “It’s not far but it’ll give you time to collect your thoughts.”

“Okay,” Harry said, his lips numb. They stood close as Harry looked over the station map.

When he was done, Malfoy grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him toward the Crossings. “We don’t have much time, but it will be enough.”

“Okay.”

Harry imagined all the things he hadn’t gotten the chance to experience with Malfoy. He would never wake up next to Malfoy in the morning. He’d never see Malfoy with his son. He’d never cook for Malfoy. He’d never hear Malfoy laugh at the wireless. 

Still. This was a good thing. He had to consider Ginny. He had to consider his children. He’d been with Ginny for almost twenty years; he’d been seeing Malfoy for a couple of months. When he was able to think reasonably about this, he knew that his marriage with Ginny was far more important. But he could remind himself of this only if he wasn’t around Malfoy. The moment his eyes landed on Malfoy, he lost all ability to remember his loyalty to Ginny, to his kids, to everyone at the Burrow dinners.

That was why they had to part ways. There was no way for him to control himself around Malfoy. Malfoy knew that. He knew that and he’d made the right decision.

Inside the Crossings, they took up a table.

“Would you like some tea?” Malfoy asked.

“Not really,” Harry said.

Malfoy chewed at his mouth. “Me either.” He didn’t really focus on Harry. It seemed to hurt Malfoy to look at him. 

Harry wanted to kiss him again. He could still feel Malfoy’s trembling mouth.

The heroic thing would be to race home to tell Ginny everything. But Harry was done being a hero. He wanted his life to be ordinary, safe. If that meant being a cheating coward then so be it. Malfoy was already so far away. He sat next to Harry at the table but he was already gone. His face was pale, his expression cold. His eyes had an unnerving dullness to them. He was thinking hard about something and Harry was invisible to him.

 _That’s good_ , Harry thought. No more feelings. No more vulnerability. A wall was growing between them, and Harry felt the wall blocking him off from the rest of the world too. No one could ever know his secrets. No one could ever know what had happened between them. He would push it so far deep that one day even he would forget. 

Malfoy gazed at him suddenly, his eyes quite intense. “Harry—I’ve been thinking—”

Harry leaned closer to the other man, a spark in his chest.

“All righ’ there, ‘arry?”

Harry looked up, startled. “Hagrid!”

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos & comments are appreciated! If you're interested, I'm now working on a Hermione/Ginny fic, [The Thing with Feathers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11430360/chapters/25610919).


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